


Shooting For Your Heart

by X_Gon_Give_It



Series: Cowboy AU [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Peter Parker, BAMF Wade Wilson, Canon-Typical Violence, Cowboy AU, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Grown-up Characters, Internal Conflict, M/M, Mild Language, NOT MCU-PETER, On the run from the law, Peter is a Little Shit, Peter is a sassy little shit, Pretending to be lovers, Quips, Snark, Spideypool Big Bang 2019, Spideypool Big Bang entry, deputy!Peter Parker, outlaw!Wade Wilson, there's only one horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 43,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22579192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/X_Gon_Give_It/pseuds/X_Gon_Give_It
Summary: “In my defense, I didn’t expect you to get hurt.”“And I didn’t expect to be run out of town, yet here we are.”He went suddenly stiff, “Wait...you were run out of town?”“As if you didn’t know,” Peter grumbled, but when he looked up he did a double-take at Wade's confused expression. “Almighty, you really don’t know, do you?” he snapped the drawer shut, “Well, after that little fiasco by Two-Stone Canyon, a little rumor spread that me and you were in cahoots. The rumor got some ground and it turned the whole town against me. I was run out before I could defend my case. Why'dya think I was out there the other night to begin with?”<><><><><><>When Peter Parker, a deputy known as Webslinger, gets accused of working with the West's deadliest outlaw he finds himself on the run from the people he once trusted. In an effort to prove his innocence, he finds himself captured by the very outlaw tarnishing his name.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Wade Wilson/Peter Parker
Series: Cowboy AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707772
Comments: 96
Kudos: 272
Collections: Spideypool Big Bang - The 2019 Collection





	1. "It's Him! He's Here To Kill Us!"

**Notes: Hello everyone! This is my contribution to the 2019 Spideypool Big Bang! Before we get started, check out the amazing artwork of the artist who chose to collaborate with me for this event:Jay! (The artwork will also be included in the story, but you should check out her social media anyway - but I'm not sure I put them in right so just in case, you should give the link a click and check them out) And another big, heaping thanks to my beta-readers, Jay (again – because she is positively amazing) and TwoIdiotsWhoWrite (he has a shared account on Wattpad with his friend and they have written for Spideypool, so you should check them out as well!) – I don't know what I would've done without you guys, thank you so much!**

**Hope you guys enjoy some weird cowboy/outlaw/deputy characters, cause you're getting them**

****

Peter had three problems – his hiding place, the outlaw, and his gun.

From where he was crouched behind a rather small hay-cart, he quickly dropped more bullets into the barrel of his gun, popping out the used shells in exchange for new ones, as a small corner of the cart was blown away into a brief, yet no-less deadly, explosion of splinters. Thankfully, the majority of it blew _away_ from him and the worst he got was a few small sliver's in the back of his hand and arm. The sting was more than enough to push an exasperated breath from his nose as he clicked the barrel back into place.

Outside, the holler of guns and clamor of feet created a crazy, disharmonic music that didn't sit well with how peaceful the morning had started. He could hear the Sheriff ordering the outlaws to surrender, though it was mostly drowned out by the startled squawking and bellowing of terrified animals. Everything about it was loud and hard on the ears, but he's grown used to the loud belch of a gun and all the cacophonous noise that normally followed. Aunt May liked to joke that he'd lose his hearing by the age of 30, but Peter supposed, being 25 now, he had 5 more years of good hearing to look forward to.

But given his circumstances, and how blasted small the hay-cart was, he might not be around to _enjoy_ those next 5 years. Not if he couldn't find something else to use as cover, at least. But in his defense, the large heaps of hay made it look _way_ bigger than it was, and he was in a rush when he picked it out. Bullets ripped through the straw like starving dogs to meat, taking out chunks with each new shot, and by this rate there wouldn't be anything left soon. The only thing truly keeping him safe was the wooden sides of the cart, and even that wasn't reliable. His insubstantial cover is what led him to his next problem – the outlaw.

They'd only be alerted to the attack on the Osborn property barely 15, maybe 20 minutes ago. They'd rode in quick and cautious, intending to take a gentle approach, and found themselves in a shootout before the Sheriff had the time to even try negotiating. The fight had split them up quickly, and as the Sheriff and his two other Deputies-in-training held their ground outside, Peter found himself pinned inside the barn when he went looking for the 4th member of the bandits coterie.

He'd been immobilized rather quickly – just as soon as he spotted a stained, rumpled hat poking from behind the pig pen and only _barely_ managed to dive behind the hay-cart before hellfire began raining over his head. The Almighty must've been on their side though, because these bandits weren't packing heavy fire-arms, and given the panicked – almost headless-chicken-like - state of their actions, they weren't good at keeping cool in a fight either. Still, they were proving more difficult than Peter would've liked.

He took a deep breath, back propped against the cart, and waited. For all the luck he had, he'd been a complete _yack_ and forgot to restock his ammunition belt the night before, and given the rush of this morning, he didn't have time to fill them up before they were being rushed out the door.

Still, while this bandit may have more cover, he still had to deal with the pungent smell of hog waste, so who _really_ had it worse?

Peter waited and listened until the fusillade of bullets stopped, counted to 5 in the silence, before lurching from behind his make-shift cover and making a break for the pig-pen. He had roughly 30-40 seconds before the bandit's gun was reloaded, give or take whether they had the skill of a quick reload. It was a risky move, but he'd never been known for his tactical actions. He vaulted across the straw-strewn floor, jumped over the feeding troughs and leapt over the top of the pig-pen, boots squelching grossly in the mud, in time to kick the bandit down just as he'd lifted his firearm. For half a second, from the force of his kick, Peter's foot slipped, and his heart jumped into his throat when he almost fell into the swamp of thick, brown muck.

Thankfully, at least for the sake of his reputation, he recovered his balance by steadying himself on the pen and was grateful the bandit had been too preoccupied with rubbing pig poop from his eyes to notice his fumble. When they both reasonably recovered, the bandit reached for his dirtied weapon, only to pause when Peter shoved the tip of his own gun between his eyes.

"I wouldn't."

The bandit's face, while stained with muck, screwed up into a pinched expression, as if Peter had told him to lick his boots clean, "Yer not gonna kill me," he sneered, despite the way his arms were slowly rising over his head, "You yellow-bellies never kill the likes of me."

Peter tilted his head, readjusted his grip around the handle, and shifted his gun to the side, "Is that so? I may not aim for the heart, but I do always hit my mark, an' right now I'm aimin' for Mr. Leftie over there – that's your good shootin' hand, right? Can't do much gun-slinging without it, I reckon, and wouldn't that be a service to the county."

The bandit paled and swallowed thickly, raising his hands more prominently in the air, "T – take it easy, Web-Slinger. I can't protect myself without my shootin' hand. W - would you really do that to nother' man?"

Peter snorted, "You'd only miss if cause you wouldn't be able to shoot _something else_ without it, and I ain't talking about a gun," he snickered childishly to himself, "Besides, if'n I had to choose between an innocent life and yours, I think I _would_ take that hand. Now git on up, keep your hands above your head, and get walkin'. Sounds to me like the fights over."

Sure enough, as they walked out of the barn, Sheriff Rogers and the other two members of their justice-seeking posse had the rest of the bandit's rounded up in front of the barn doors, kneeling with their hands on their heads. That's what Peter loved about small-time crooks. They were so much easier to intimidate and take down than real crime-crawling outlaws. Just give them a bit of a tussle – and if you had a big enough reputation – you'd have the bandits surrendering in 10 minutes, give or take.

He shoved his bandit down with the rest of the group and left them to the gunpoint of the 2nd deputy-in-training, Deputy Thompson, and followed the dusty imprint of Sheriff Roger's boots to the house.

The ranch overseer was waiting for them, leaning against the wooden porch rails with a cigar hanging from his thin lips. He was wearing a rumpled shit and a pair of dirty trousers, hastily thrown over his long-underwear, suggesting that he'd woken up recently. Peter glanced at the sky, where the sun was inching toward noon, and scowled back at the man. He had a long, beak-like nose and small beady eyes that sought out flaws like a hunting bird of prey. He had a thin, lanky frame, and a sneer permanently fixed on his face. The scruffy grey hair standing up on the back of his head reminded Peter of a plum of upturned feathers.

Behind his back most people called him the Vulture, but to his face he was known as Adrien Toomes – overseer to one of Osborn's cattle ranches, because when you were rich other people got to do the work _for_ you.

"Mighty fine work, Sheriff," Toomes appraised, momentarily taking the cigar from his mouth and leaving a trail of lazy smoke lingering in the air. His voice was thin and raspy, like he spent his time in the hot sun and only ever stopped to gargle on hot rocks. It was a shrill sound that never failed to grate on Peter's nerves. "Can't thank ya e'nuff for capping those poachers. Saved the mayor a whole lotta cattle, you did."

Sheriff Rogers gave a curt nod, though his face was grim and turned down, one hand resting on the gun hanging from his holster and the other planted on his hip. Peter can tell he's not too happy. "None of this would've happened if you had that cattle bein' watched, Mr. Toomes."

Toomes waved the cigar nonchalantly in the air, "Can't win em' all, Sheriff. There's bound to be a few sneakin' past me. M'just glad you got here in time. I'd cap em' myself, but," he gestured to his thin, wiry body, "M'fraid my years haven't been too kind on me."

"Maybe if you actually _did_ somethin' you'd be in better shape," Peter snapped, "Not doing much overseeing if all you can see is your own bed."

Toomes eyes fall on Peter and particularly familiar distaste pulled at his lips. "All these years and you still haven't taught yer dog to quiet its bark," he told Sheriff Rogers.

"He's his own person, Toomes. Now keep an eye on them cows, cuz we might not get here in time again." With that, the Sheriff turned and trudged back toward the outlaws and 2 other deputies. Peter and Vulture glared at each other a few seconds more – Peter contemplated lifting his bandanna just to stick out his tongue but decided that was a bit _too_ childish – and pulled himself away instead.

"He's right though," Steve muttered when Peter jogged up next to him, "You've got to tame that tongue of yours if you plan on taking over for me here."

Peter ignored that, and the unpleasant anxiety that writhed in his stomach every time Steve mentioned the subject, and jogged forward, pulling in front of the older man by walking backward, "I know you're gonna roll your eyes when you hear this, but hear me out," Peter started and Steve groaned, "Look, I think those bandits were hidin' out here, Steve. They weren't even lookin' at them cattle when we got here. One of em' was dozing when I found im'."

Which was true. The farmhand Toomes had sent to get the Sheriff said that a group of cow poachers were attempting to raid the ranch, but when they'd gotten there, Peter had spotted one the bandits on the upper floor of the barn, through the giant doors used to shovel hay through and he looked like he'd been _sleeping_. By the time Peter had gone in there, the man was awake and had taken cover in the pig-pen. He'd probably climbed down to the first floor trying to get away, rather than keeping the high ground – unlike any _smart_ outlaw.

Steve gave him a long, suffering look, and rolled his eyes as predicted, "Is this another part of your plot against Mayor Osborn?"

"It's not a plot, Steve. It's _fact_. C'mon, it's on the tip of your nose. We all know Norman Osborn's coal mines are runnin' low, and yet his income stays consistent. I think he's been harborin' bandits on his property in return for some of their thieving."

"Peter, you've always been twitchy around Osborn. Do you even have evidence to support your claim?"

"I'm –" Peter faltered and turned so he was walking side by side with Steve, "I'm working on it. He's crafty as a snake, alright. He washes his tracks mighty good."

"Look, I know you have your hang-ups with Mayor Osborn, but dontcha think your problems might be a little," Steve hesitated and pulled his hat up a little with a sigh, as if prepping himself for the rant he thought was coming, "personal."

Peter's steps slowed and he glowered, "I admit that my feelings toward Norman Osborn are…personal," he acknowledged coldly, "But that doesn't stop me from digging for the truth, no matter how much Osborn tries to threaten, kill, or _bribe_ to cover it up _._ I thought that's what the law did, after all," Peter ignored the way Steve reached out to him, as if to clap him on the shoulder, and stomped toward his horse, untied the reins from the wooden stand, and led the animal away. He swung up on the saddle and twisted around so they could lay one of the bound crooks across the horses' back. In all their rush, they hadn't even brought along a wagon to haul the bandits back with.

With one last withering look at the ranch around them, Peter twisted his horse around and clicked his tongue, and they headed back to town. It was that time of year when people tended to travel a lot, so the jail was getting packed as it was, full of road-thieves and bandits who robbed those carrying enough coin. Peter didn't know how many more crooks they could fit in there before it bordered on cruelty.

It was a little immature of him, but Peter kept a distance from Steve in demonstration of how he was now giving his senior officer the cold shoulder. He ignored the questioning looks of the two junior ranked deputies, Eugene Thompson and Mary Jane Watson. Two of his oldest friends growing up.

They'd gotten into the deputy game a year or so after him, and Peter couldn't have been happier to have them by his side. He'd known Mary Jane since they were kids, and Eugene a short time later - although his relationship with the other boy hadn't always been the best in their youth. He knew they'd corner him as soon as they got back to town, because his life was the free opera theater they loved to watch, so even if he didn't acknowledge their inquisitive looks now, they knew they'd get all the juicy details eventually. Given the small size of their town, it was their own true form of entertainment.

He could imagine that they'd side with Steve, though. Peter's been pursuing Osborn for a while and he didn't exactly keep his contempt a secret. They understood why he hated him and his reasons for going after the major, but they never missed an opportunity to express their concerns about it too.

"Don't ya think you're gettin' a bit…" Eugene would hesitate, rummaging through his brain for the right words.

"Obsessive," Mary Jane would likely fill in for him.

Peter would cross his arms and tip his hat up, " _No_ ," he'd reply stubbornly and ignore the looks of disbelief they'd give him as he walked away, nose turned up.

So, to avoid feeling even _more_ bitter and picked on, he'd satisfy their curiosity at a later date.

They rode their horses down the main road of the ranch, toward the wooden gate near the top field of one of the pastures. They only got a few feet before the bandit sprawled over Peter's saddle squirmed, trying to wiggle his way to freedom despite the fact that he was doing so _right_ behind Peter, and wasn't being too subtle about it either.

Peter sighed and twisted halfway around, rapping the guy mildly on the head with his knuckles, "Cut that out," he said. "I'm not in a very pleasant mood."

"L – look Webslinger," the crook said, twisting his neck to look up at him, "We wasn't doing nothing. I haven't poached cattle in some time."

"Then why were you on Osborn's property?"

He hesitated for the briefest second, before ducking his head, "Cause you were right," he whispered frantically, "We did pay Osborn to let us stay on his ranch, but not because we was hidin' from the law. We was gettin' protection."

Peter glowered at him, turning his focus from the road, "Protection from what?"

The bandit glanced around nervously, as if expecting a knife to come flying at his back, "The Dead Rider," he whispered, hoarse and nervous, as if saying the name would summon some kind of demon from hell itself. "He's been spotted in the area, and given our… our _past_ , he's bound to come after us, and nobody survives a tussle with him. We was just lookin' out for our safety is all."

Peter's heard of the "Dead Rider." Or the "Riding Corpse", or the "Undead Outlaw." Equal parts legend and myth. Old ghost stories Peter's overheard from the bandits they've tossed in jail and the odd tale among travelers and other law officers. _Apparently_ , the Dead Rider was an outlaw like themselves, only he couldn't die. Some claimed they'd seen him take a whole round of bullets to the chest and he'd gotten back up minutes later. Others said he was a demon straight out of the fiery depths of hell and that he couldn't die because the wicked devil itself didn't even want him.

The rumors varied in context and theme, but the message was always the same. The man was _dangerous._ Peter's heard a few say that Dead Rider was some kind of supernatural creature that killed without mercy, lusted after death, and looked a fully loaded gun down the barrel with nothing but laughter between its teeth. Tantalizing stories said the creature was beautiful, and seduced men and women alike before striking them down and stripping them of mind, body, and soul as offerings to the evil spirits that guided him.

To be honest, the stories twisted and morphed so much it was like watching a snake curl around its own body - hard to determine what fit where, and where it ended and began. But there was always a single, dominant tidbit in every story.

Aside from taking bullets like a champ, the Dead Rider had a particularly nasty habit of _hunting_. Only, it wasn't wild deer or mountain lions he hunted.

It was other outlaws.

At first it seemed like some wild tale cooked up among the crooks to inspire a little hearty fear. A outlaw vigilante who killed and maimed the people the law never could and took his own justice with cold, merciless judgement. But that was where he went wrong. Peter could excuse hunting down outlaws in the name of justice, but killing them on the spot, without a proper sentencing or case before a judge, _that's_ what set him off. No one should play judge, jury, and executioner. That's not how the system _worked_. It was biased and unfair. Besides, the recounts of this man weren't detailed with heroism or justice, just lunacy, chaos, and cold-blooded murder.

Still, when Peter first heard those stories, he never _really_ believed them. They were ridiculous. A man who could take a shot to the heart and keep living and breathing? If only such miracles were true.

But this Dead Rider? A fairy tale. A haunted story. A romantic poem – for some. The outlaw came in the form of many different story-telling, but that was all it was. Fiction. A conjured muse of the mind.

There was no way a man like that existed.

At least, that's what Peter thought until one particularly gruesome night, up in a town in one of the mountains. A clear starry night filled with the sound of gunfire, screams, and blood.

But Peter shook that memory away and dismissed the cold shiver threatening to scurry down his spine.

He glanced back down at the crook, who was looking around the bushes and looming cliffs of the canyons as if waiting for someone to pop out and yell " _BOO!"_

"Why'd you think Osborn could save you?" Peter asked.

"Cuz, he knows _how_. Has a whole underground railroad for hidin' crooks like us. Though, you snatchin' us up like you did is going to hogscrew his reputation."

That left a happier, tingly feeling in Peter's chest. "Fantastic."

This was _great_. He finally had a lead. Some _real_ evidence. Steve needed to hear this and Peter was going to accept his apology so they could finally start on a case against Osborn. This was the kind of breakthrough he's been waiting on for almost 8 years now, and he should also _probably_ relay the information that Dead Rider had been spotted in the area.

That couldn't be good.

He jerked on the reins to steer his horse toward Steve's just as a shot echoed sharply through the air. For a moment, the cool tenor of the morning froze, as if petrified by the sudden commotion. Peter felt the bullet zip by him, cutting the air like a knife, and clipping his horse in the rear. The steed gave a pained, whinnying shriek and bucked wildly, throwing both Peter and the bandit off as it tossed its head and kicked, before bolting away with a trail of blood running down its flank. Peter managed to roll with the fall and came back up on his knees, both guns out and aiming for a threat he couldn't pin-point right away, whereas the bandit hit the ground heavily, the sound like a bag of potatoes.

"Get down!" Steve bellowed, "We've been ambushed!"

Peter tucked one gun away so he could grab the bandit by the collar and dragged him behind another cart loaded with hay, while the other kept his second gun out and poised. Whatever this thing with hay barrels was, it was getting on Peter's nerves, but it happened to be the closest thing he had for cover.

"It's him," the bandit sobbed, desperately trying to pull the ropes apart on his wrists, "He's here to kill us."

"Well he's not going to," Peter snapped, "Keep your head on and listen, and you might just live through this." To his relief, the bandit took his advice and ducked close to the ground, whimpering.

Peter peered over the side of the cart and ducked just as quickly when a sharp _ping_ sounded close to his hand. He took a deep breath, scooted a little more to the right, and looked over to shoot off a few bullets of his own before sinking back down again.

He looked for Steve, Mary Jane, and Eugene to make sure they found a hiding place but didn't have a good enough vantage point to determine whether or not they made it. And if he'd been paying a little more attention to the crook, he might've noticed the desperate way he was struggling to loosen the ropes with his hands and teeth.

Peeking over the edge again, he grumbled sourly when he was unable to pin-point the locations of all their attackers. There was one behind the tree planted at the edge of the property, he knew that much, but there definitely had to be more than that. Peter couldn't get over to the tree without leaving himself vulnerable and unprotected, though.

Frowning, he reached for the bandit and started when he only felt open air. Something jerked in the corner of his eye and Peter barely had time to look up before he was getting bludgeoned in the head with a large rock. The crook had managed to shimmy his way out of the ropes, and despite Peter's attempts at keeping him alive, he was still very willing to smash his face in. The hit wasn't enough to knock Peter out, but it did make him see stars in the sunny, morning sky.

"You're not gettin' in my way, Slinger," he said hysterically, raising the rock again. "I ain't dying here."

"I saved your life, you rat," Peter growled back, holding his pistol wobbly. His head was swimming and the side of his head was panging painfully. The blow hadn't been enough to make him _bleed_ , but he felt the beginning of a large bump building on his skull. Before he could attempt to shoot the crook's knees, a blast shot over his head and the bandit stumbled as a bullet hit the exact center of his forehead. It went out the other end in a spray of blood and soft-pink brain matter, and he looked down in surprise, the rock slipping from his hand and barely missing Peter's head as fell forward. Right on top of Peter.

Peter gave a high noise of surprise, going stock still from the sudden weight over his body. His brain flashed to a different time. A different body. Not on top of him, but in his arms, it's weight in his hands and the blood staining his clothes. He remembered how _cold_ that night was and how _warm_ the blood felt.

He snapped himself out before he got too drawn in by throwing the body off as quickly as possible. A pair of dull eyes stared at Peter, seeing nothing. Frozen pools of shock that could no longer registered the happenings of the land of the living. It sent a rolling ball of nausea in Peter's stomach when he felt pieces of blood and brain flecked onto his face and shirt, but since he'd been shot from the front, most of the gore had landed near his feet.

The hard crunch of boots on gravel grabbed his attention with two meaty fists, and Peter snatched his gun before he even looked up. A hand seized his wrist before he could pull the trigger and twisted it hard enough that the gun dropped; a foot kicked it away.

Wincing from the pinch of his skin from the grip, Peter looked up at the large, looming figure and his heart stopped. _It couldn't be._

Speak the devils name and it shall appear.

The figure dragged him roughly to his feet, his grip hard and his stance strong. Before Peter was even sure he was seeing right, he lashed out, twisting his wrist crudely out of the man's hand and swung his fist, landing a solid hit to the covered face. Whether or not his eyes were playing tricks, he wanted as much distance between him and this man as possible.

Peter's gun had been kicked away too far to grab, and the other was under the bandit's fallen body, pinned beneath the corpses chest, so he snatched a gun from one of holster hanging from the man's hip, pulled back the trigger, and aimed it at his head.

"Move and I'll pump your brain fulla lead!"

The man rubbed at his jaw hard, but Peter was rankled to realize he was _laughing_ , "Damn, you punch harder than I remember," he looked down at Peter, eyes bright and amused above the thick handkerchief tied around the bottom half of his face. It was red, like the one Peter wore, only its color was more rustic. Less like the blooming poppies in Aunt May's garden and more like the red sands of Arizona cliffs.

Peter's always been a believer in carrying a gun around, especially when you were out traveling these lands by yourself, but this man brought it to a whole new level. Where Peter had two guns always holstered loyally to his hips, this man had _four_. Two in the front and two in the back. Slung over his shoulder were 2 rifles as well. Ammo hung off his frame like armor and Peter could see the hilt of a knife hidden in the man's boot; more were likely concealed in his cowled hood too.

What was he planning on doing? Fighting an army? Taking over a city?

But Peter knew all too well who this man was and what he was capable of. The name bandits and law-biders alike have spit like snake venom. A man Peter had only seen once before.

The Dead Rider was on the hunt again.

He was still rubbing his jaw but looked Peter up and down as if sizing him up. It reminded Peter of their last encounter and he clenched his jaw. His head still throbbed from the hit the poacher gave him, but he fought back a wince, this was no time to be worrying about his injuries. Not if he wanted to avoid ending up worse.

He's seen the Dead Rider's work and he wasn't going to end up as another bloodied body in the dirt.

His thoughts must've shown through his eyes cause Dead Rider held up his hands in a placating way, as if he were even capable of soothing, "M'not gonna hurt you," he said it as if Peter were being silly, "I'm just here for that yellow-bellied snake you had slung there over your saddle. I've got nothing on you, Web-Slinger."

The fact that the bandit _knew_ of him left Peter feeling conflicted. On the one hand, that meant his reputation was growing, which meant people would be a lot less likely to do crime in his presence. On the flip side, it made people less likely to underestimate him, which was a tactic Peter counted on when he was facing someone he wasn't comfortable fighting head-on.

Dead Rider was someone Peter wouldn't mind underestimating him. It'd make it easier to bring them down in the long run. Unfortunately, apparently, Peter's reputation preceded him.

"He was in our jurisdiction, _Dead Rider_ ," Peter snapped back, making it a point to say his name so he was aware that Peter knew of him too. It put them at equal ground. "Sheriff Rogers and I will take it from here."

At the mention of Steve, Dead Rider stopped massaging his jaw. He blew out a huffy breath, looking somewhat irked.

"Ya know, I really didn't want to do this in front of Rogers," he admitted, placing his hands on his hips in the way Aunt May did when Peter tracked mud in the house, "But a job's a job."

Strange logic for a strange man, but Peter didn't have time to dwell on it when Dead Rider gave a shrill whistle and the next thing Peter knew a sharp pain was slicing across his shoulder. He dropped the gun with a hiss, clamping his hand on his arm, where blood was already staining the white shirt beneath his poncho. Not a moment later, the gun was in Dead Rider's hand and their positions had switched.

Peter glared down the barrel, despite the way his heart jack-rabbited, blood leaking shrewdly through his fingers.

Instead of putting a bullet between his eyes, as Peter would've expected, he was hauled back on his feet. Dead Rider clutched the back of his shirt and touched the tip of the gun to Peter's temple, and walked them both forward, positioning Peter directly in front of him in the equivalence of a human shield.

"Hey," he shouted. "Sheriff!"

Peter saw Steve peep out from behind his cover - a large trough for livestock to drink from - and his eyes widened. "Hold your fire," he ordered, and the gun-fire instantly ceased, from both sides.

Dead Rider hummed appreciatively in the following silence, "Good. I didn't want things gettin' too ugly now. Here's what's gonna happen, Sheriff - me and my compadres are climbing back on our horses, all easy like, and if any one of us gets shot, including myself, Imma put a bullet in this deputy's noggin."

Peter saw Mary Jane and Eugene watching with white knuckles, peering over a large rock near the fence, barely big enough to conceal both their bodies. He noticed the others now too. Six others, to be exact. Outlaws spread around the battlefield, all peeking from behind makeshift hiding plces. One grimaced when he spotted Peter, another slapped an exasperated hand over his face, and another went as far as restocking his gun in a bout of irritated grumbling – as if expecting a fight real quick. If that wasn't a bad sign, then Peter was as green as freshly minted leaves.

"Whatya doing here, Dead Rider," Sheriff Rogers asked coolly, but there was a hard note in his voice. "Release my deputy."

"Sorry Sheriff, but he _does_ make a lovely shield. 'Sides, I'd hate to lose the protection of the law," he said it wryly and Peter would feel the smirk floating in the air, hovering like a bad stench, "But here's what we're gonna do. Me and your deputy are gonna walk back to my horse, all nice and slow, and we're gonna climb back on. Me and my posse are gonna leave and if I see any of my men fall, or I hear a shot, then your man," he shook Peter, "gets the same fate. You understand my terms?"

Steve was glaring, his knuckles white where he was clutching his gun. He never liked losing his allies. Peter's heard his old war stories, about all the lives that were lost and the risks he'd taken in battle, and he knew Steve had a particular dislike when the prospect of losing someone was brought up. Still, he said, "I understand."

Dead Rider nodded to his posse who slowly, with stiff shoulders and tightly clenched weapons, emerged into the open. The smallest of the group, a twiggy man (boy?) with wild red curls and a pasty pale face collected a group of horses that had been kept behind one of the large rock collections dotting the outside of the Ranch. Peter liked them because they made for good cover if you got to them in time, and because were tall enough that it gave you the higher ground. Unfortunately, its perks weren't reserved _only_ for him. Many of the rock congregations were large enough to hide a fair amount of people, and animals, so long as they stayed put.

The twiggy-man didn't bring a horse to the Dead Rider, which wasn't much of a problem when the man himself whistled again, this time a quick rhythmic sound, and a moment later a large black horse came jogging up to him. "Atta girl," he murmured, patting her nose. "Well deputy, git on up," he pushed Peter toward the horse.

Peter turned briefly to scowl at him, looked up at the gun still pointed toward his head, and looked away. Maybe if he was fast enough, he could disarm him. Depending on how slow the rest of his posse was, he could use the horse as a distraction and make a break for Steve. Without a gun he was defenseless, so maybe he could knab another one if he could get close enough.

As if he'd been thumbing through his thoughts, Dead Rider dug the tip of the gun into Peter's head, "Nah, you better not be getting any ideas," he whispered, so close it made the hairs on the back of Peter's neck rise, "One of my best shooters has their gun trained on you. You so much as flinch and your sheriff will be digging bullets outta your corpse for a month."

It was true enough. A large figure with dark skin – and what looked like a painted potato sack on his head - had his rifle trained on Peter's chest. His hands were steady, and Peter could feel hidden eyes pinning him like a butterfly to paper.

So, begrudgingly, he climbed on the horse and Dead Rider followed after him. With quick hands, Dead Rider produced a rope from one of the saddlebags and wound it quickly around Peter's wrist, fingers deft as they pulled, twisted, and knotted it tightly. When he let go to grab the reins, Peter tested the rope's strength. It was strong and tight, but _just_ loose enough. It wouldn't be easy wiggling out of them, but it wasn't impossible.

"Whatya doin' with my deputy?" Sheriff Rogers demanded.

"Don't worry, we'll drop him off once we're at a safe distance," Dead Rider said, "Don't follow us, now. I'd hate to see the life drain from those pretty brown eyes of his," He snaked his arms around Peter's middle and grabbed the reins, pressing their bodies tight together. Too tight for Peter to turn around and knock him in the head. His breath tickled Peter's ears when he whispered, "Good to see you again, Webslinger." then he clicked his tongue and they surged away. The rest of his posse following in suit.

With his hands tied the way there were, it was rough finding a steady rhythm to the horse's gallop, and it was particularly irritating when he was resorted to using Dead Rider as support to keep himself from careening over the side. If Dead Rider found it as irritating, he didn't say so.

Peter tested the ropes again, moving subtly with his hands close to his chest so his fidgeting wouldn't be noticed. The knot and rope work were good, but not _that_ good. He wiggled his fingers, using the bumpy gait of the horse to hide the shift and jerk of his hands, and in record time, he was sliding his hands out of the ropes. It positively _bugged_ Eugene when Peter wiggled out of ropes that he couldn't figure out, especially because he found it so much harder to do. He liked to argue that he had bigger, thicker hands (unlike Peter's more wiry ones) and that it should be easier for him. Peter didn't have the heart to point out that it was probably _because_ of Eugene's bigger hands that make it harder for him.

Besides, Peter had a reputation to uphold. As the rumors about _Webslinger_ liked to say – a spider never got caught in another's web.

The landscape around them grew and altered they neared the gorge up a head. Two-Stone Canyon as it was called, christened with that name because of the precariously stacked stones on top of a high rocky pillars that marked the canyon entrance. Honestly, it was less of a canyon and more of a gorge - but Two-Stone Gorge didn't sound as good. It rose above the ground in high cliffs and mild mountains – the tail to the mountain range that stretched across the western side of the plains. There'd be plenty of cover and hiding places inside, which Peter was wholeheartedly willing to use to his advantage.

Besides, he knew the canyon like the back of his hand, having scaled its cliffs and explored its junctures as a kid. It doubled as his own personal playground.

He took a small breath in waiting. It wouldn't make a lick of sense if he struck out without a plan. That'd only result with a bullet between his eyes and a whole lot of rotting stupid between his ears. He didn't climb his way from farm boy, to town fighter, to deputy by reacting on instinct alone. Uncle Ben used to say that if you got a good brain on you, it was a greater gift to use it then let it go to waste; and getting himself killed because being around this outlaw made him twitchy was the same kind of stupidity Uncle Ben warned against.

Besides, waiting was always half the game. Peter couldn't name all the crooks he's lured out of hiding just by waiting for the right moment; biding his time, until they lulled themselves into a false sense of security, thinking they'd got away. Like a cat catching a mouse, almost.

Yeah, sometimes he needed action and went out looking for a fight, but trouble didn't like to sit around and wait for you to find it; it was more than happy to stir itself up with or without you.

They made their way into the beginnings of tall walls and jagged cliffs. As they rode, Peter sought out the rough grooves and indents chipped into the rocky walls; the little crevices that most people failed to notice. The farther in they went, the steeper the slopes would get, and smoother the walls would become. It was harder to find hand-holds that fit close together when the walls got bigger, so if he was going to make a move, he needed to make it soon.

The Almighty still must've been pitying him, because he recognized the trail the outlaws were taking. This had been where he'd spent most of his time climbing when he was younger. The cliffs and trails were high and narrow, but there were plenty of ledges, hand-holds, and crevices to grab onto. A lot of good hiding places too. He's spent hours exploring every surface of these rocks and cliffs; there to adapt to their changes as they weathered and eroded, so he could describe each rock, nook, and fissure with fine-detail and point out any chain of hand-holds that most would gloss over.

And sure enough, farther up he spotted a slim trail of grooves that ran up the side of a wall that they were riding along. It led to a plateau of stone, a ledge, jutting halfway up the wall where several large rocks and bushes would make an ideal hiding spot.

 _That_ would be his escape.

He waited for the horse to get a few steps closer, counting every breath passing through the beast's lungs to keep himself patient. _1 breath…2 breath…3 breath….4 breath…GO!_

He let go of the ropes he kept bunched around his wrists and grabbed the reins from Dead Rider, pulling _hard_. The horse whinnied shrilly and rose onto two legs and Peter used the sudden imbalance to jab Dead Rider in the gut; fast enough for the outlaw give a startled grunt and hard enough that he slipped right off the horse's back. As Dead Rider fell on his ass, Peter winced, struggling not to rub his elbow. Either he had abs like steel under that shirt of his, or he was secretly built of metal, because _hell_ that hurt.

He didn't have time to contemplate either theories. He had a millisecond debate on whether he should take Dead Rider's horse and make a run back to Steve, but figured he'd get a bullet in the back before he made it that far. Instead, as soon as the horse fell back on all fours, he lurched off her, hit the ground in a crouch, sprinted, and was climbing up the wall side before any of them had the chance to so much as scratch their ass, much less take a shot at him.

"What the shit?!" he heard one exclaim, and snorted.

The amused part of his brain was aware that the hand holds were generally small and unnoticeable, especially if you didn't know where to look, so to those who haven't seen him climb before, it may very well look like a regular man scaling the side of a wall like a lizard. Or a spider.

Their shock was short lived, and a shot embedded itself next to his hand a few seconds later. Frantic, Peter increased his speed until he was pulling himself onto the plateau and throwing himself behind a large rock. He took a small, greedy moment to catch his breath and settle his heart, before he peeked out from behind the rock, just far enough that his eyes and hat could be seen. The members of Dead Rider's posse were clambering down from their horses, guns drawn, prepared to attempt the wall or find some trail to lead them up to his plateau, but Dead Rider waved them to a stop as he got to his feet, shrewdly dusting the dirt off his pants and shirt and rearranging his many holsters and weapons.

He secured his ammunition reserves to their places and glanced up at the plateau, instantly catching Peter's eyes and Peter disappeared behind the rock again.

"Let's go," Dead Rider said, whistling to call back his horse, who trotted back to him obediently. She pushed him with her long nose as if to ask, 'what the _hell_ had happened'. "Aye, sorry 'bout that. Those law-abiders have the worst manners." To his posse he said, "C'mon, we ain't got time to hunt down a spider," it was followed by a prominent "HII-YEAH" and the clop of horses running off.

Still, Peter waited several minutes before he peaked out again.

They were gone. Or, at least, they wanted him to _think_ they were gone. They could be hiding behind the curve of the canyon or a jutting rock for all he knew. All it took was one bullet to bring a man down, and Peter wasn't going to take the chance – not _everybody_ could be like Dead Rider. Instead of climbing back down, he ascended. Going farther up the canyon, using shrubs, rocks, and shadows as his cover till there was a safe distance between him and his potential killers.

Despite the numerous scolding's of Aunt May and Uncle Ben, Peter scaled these canyons all the time when he was a kid. Their combination of high cliffs and sheer walls were dangerous, and a 9-year-old boy had no business climbing them like they were trees, but he'd done it anyway. He liked climbing, always had and always will. He climbed houses, terraces, even the trees around town that were big enough to suit his weight, but his favorite was the canyon. There were always enough handholds hidden in the rock, and if not, he carved them out with the knife Uncle Ben bought him for his 10th birthday. He'd fallen more than once; one time bad enough to sprain his wrist, earning the righteous wrath of Aunt May as she'd bandaged his hand. But that never stopped him.

Climbing was like seeing the world from a whole new perspective. Folks were so busy going about their lives on the ground, they never took the time to look up. He could observe so much more from above. See things that others couldn't, and that was a precious skill to have when you worked within the law. And, if he were being honest, there was a touch of sentiment behind it too. He liked how quiet it was. It was just him, the open sky, and the hawks and vultures roaming the clouds. He could almost pretend the world was better up there; peaceful. A place where people didn't get shot in the back for doing the right thing.

Now, Peter was thankful for all the time he spent climbing. He was lucky he hadn't fallen to his death or been knabbed by bandits as a child, but it was these skills that saved him today. What were the chances that the _Dead Rider_ would've let him walk away unscathed – aside from the burning scrape in his arm already.

 _About as good as the last time he let you go._ Peter grimaced, rubbing his neck softly.

He met Dead Rider once before and he'd nearly been killed.

It was almost 2 years ago when he'd come face to face with that outlaw for the first time. It'd been during a big operation in a town farther into the mountain ranges. The town was a relatively small one, but it was harboring important members of one of the most dangerous outlaw gangs known throughout the West – Firearm X. Steve had gathered the other law enforcers from other towns for one epic operation. Take down Firearm X when they least expected it, hopefully _for good._

But the night of the attack had gone horribly wrong. Dead Rider showed up and stirred the entire gang into a tizzy, and it didn't take long for the law enforcers to get caught up in it too. A fight broke out. A mighty big one too. The sheriffs and deputies got involved, the gang got involved, and Dead Rider had been involved – it'd been a major bloodbath.

So many people died that night; so many innocent lives of the town folk who had gotten caught in the crossfire.

Peter had been pinned in the back room of a store sometime that night, exchanging shots between a gang member who was hiding behind an upturned table. He was running low on ammunition and his movements were getting slower, thanks to the nasty cut he'd gotten in an earlier fight when an outlaw pulled a knife on him. Behind his makeshift cover, he managed to tie a strip of his shirt over the wound on his thigh, to cut off the bleeding, but it pulsed with pain and blood was soaking into his pants and poncho. He was lucky the cut wasn't deep, but the gang-member was quickly gaining the upper hand and he wasn't sure he was going to make it to daybreak.

Then, as he was checking his bullet count, Peter registered the bark of a gun that wasn't his, followed by the silence of his assailant and a thump of a body. A pair of thick, heavy boots walked into the room, jingling from the spurs on its heels and thudding from its owners' weight. Peter peered out from behind the barrel of molasses he was kneeling behind and recognized the weapons and the cowl he'd seen on wanted posters, and didn't waste a second pulling the trigger. The bullets hit Dead Rider's chest, then dropped to the floor. One ricocheted off his body and struck the wall not far from Peter, leaving him to stare in stunned silence.

"You're Deputy Webslinger, arencha?" the voice behind the rustic bandanna rumbled, there voice was smooth and deep, and he didn't wait for Peter to respond before he was striding forward.

Peter stumbled back, thigh trembling when he forced himself onto his feet, and shot again - damn the repercussions - but the gun barrel was empty. He kicked the molasses barrel with his good leg, toward Dead Riders feet, and reached for the feeble remains of his ammunition. He'd gotten one bullet into the chamber when a hand grabbed his wrist.

"I wouldn't," warned Dead Rider, backing Peter up against the wall. "Looks to me like you're injured enough, and you should probably save some of those bullets for Fireass X, hmm," He crowded in close, looking Peter over as if assessing him. Looking for weak spots maybe? Debating the quickest way to gut him?

In a feat of desperation, Peter swung his fist and clocked the man in the face, but instead of letting him go, the grip on his wrist tightened.

"Gotta say, you're _something_ , Slinger," Dead Rider laughed, rubbing his jaw, eyes glinting above the bandanna, "Got a quick hand on you, and good aim too. If you ever decide the law has too much of a stick up its ass, then come find me. I'm sure I can find a place for ya," he winked, blew Peter a fleeting kiss, and was out of the room by the time Peter was reteaching himself how to breathe. When he looked down at the gun still in his hand, he realized Dead Rider had dropped a box of ammunition in his palm.

The outlaw's words officially registered in his brain later, when he wasn't high off the panic of getting caught defenseless and the surprise of making it out alive.

In the end, Firearm X retreated and managed to escape into the surrounding forests. The only one who seemed unscathed was Dead Rider, and he'd disappeared from the fight as quickly as he'd shown up.

He had contemplated telling Steve about it on their way back home, but the man was so focused on helping the wounded and chasing the gang stragglers, that by the time they were riding back into town, the interaction between him and Dead Rider seemed like an unimportant detail in an otherwise terrifying night, and the opportunity of bringing it up with relevance was gone. Besides, Steve was already feeling terrible for how _his_ operation had gone and Peter didn't want to make it worse.

The only person he's even told that story to was Mary Jane, and they'd been drunk at the time. She'd dismissed it as alcohol influenced thoughts the next day, and Peter didn't want to put forth the effort to convince her otherwise. It's not like it mattered anyway, because soon after that fight Dead Right disappeared and hadn't been seen for 2 years since.

Until today, of course. Because by some chance of fate, Peter had come face to face with Dead Rider a second time and survived the ordeal. That's not something many people could claim, and while he didn't want to look a gift horse in the mouth, he couldn't help but wonder _why_. Both times Dead Rider had the opportunity to kill him, and he hadn't taken it. Given the outlaw's reputation, that didn't seem right.

Then again, the man's never killed law enforcers – at least, not usually. There were a few exceptions, but Dead Rider normally kept to other outlaws and bounties.

Peter sighed and shielded his eyes, glancing up at the sky. It was reaching noon now and he knew his way back to town well enough – why Osborn chose to build his ranches so far from civilization was beyond him – but worrisome thoughts had him tugging at his hair and collar, and he couldn't tell if it was just sweat or his nerves.

What if Dead Rider came looking to finish his kill?

Peter hadn't stayed alive for so long by being careless. He would keep to the shadows and take the long trails back to town. He didn't have his guns on him, thanks to the showdown and the poacher turning on him, so it wasn't like he could defend himself in the case that someone with ill-intent found him. He'd take the cautious route. It would take him a while and he'd probably hit the town somewhere around night-fall, but it was better than dying face-down in the dirt as a robber rummaged through his pockets for money.

With a long, heavy sigh, Peter pushed the bottom of his hat over his head, ripped a strip of his shirt sleeve to use as a makeshift bandage for his shoulder, and started the careful walk back home.

* * *

It was just past nightfall when Peter made it back to town.

He had one hand clamped over the burning tear in his arm and the other dangled feebly as he tiredly trudged among the dusty buildings that made up their small establishment. Beneath the fabric of his shirt _and_ poncho he could feel the heat of his inflamed skin, likely on its way to being infected due to lack of proper treatment. Dammit, Steve was gonna put him on bed rest for a few days – maybe a week – before he was allowed back in the game. Sure, there was no point in showing up to a gun fight if his quick-draw wasn't at its standards. It only took seconds between gunfire to determine life and death, and if Peter could out-draw his enemies, he'd live to see another day; but even the slightest hitch in his arm, the smallest hesitation, and he'd be corpse before his guns were out of their holsters.

But that didn't mean he wanted to _lounge_ around all day when he had a very rich snake to hunt down,

He thought about going down the main road and finding the nearest tavern and getting the strongest drink they had. He wasn't much of an alcohol drinker – didn't like the things it did to his head – but he enjoyed a nice cup of brandy here and there. And after a long day of slinking from shadows and walking in the high heat with no water, he needed a good, strong drink to ease his aches and concerns.

The _smart_ thing to do would be to grab some water and find real treatment for his arm, the sooner he did the latter the better. Which is what he planned on doing, because _ugh,_ responsibility.

Besides, when it came down to it, he didn't want to draw attention from the town folks, so it was probably best if he kept to the shadows for a while longer. He was plum-tuckered and getting pulled around to answer their questions or talk about his day sounding like _literal_ torture. He wanted to get out of his dusty clothes and fall into a food-induced sleep. So, maybe bed-rest didn't sound so bad.

Keeping his shoulder close to dark corners and buildings sides, he made a bee-line for the jailhouse. It was located closer to the edge of town, so that in the circumstances there was a jail break, there wouldn't be much cover for those trying to flee and not many innocent towns-people to get caught in the crossfire. More than one bandit has tried busting their friends out, only to find themselves with a bullet in the leg and a jail cell next to their pal. Steve usually whittled the hours of the night in there too, going through the day's work of cleaning his guns and holsters, and tidying up the small kitchen in the main room.

That's usually how he spent the night anyway. But unlike every other night, Steve wasn't inside when Peter pulled the door open.

The jailhouse was larger than it used to be, having gone through several renovations as they put away more and more outlaws and poachers, all waiting to get a trial. The main room was toward the front, where Steve normally rocked in his chair, whistling an old tavern song as his cleaned his long barrel rifle.

Tonight the chair was empty. The main room was doused in shadows with the only source of light coming from a single lantern sitting on the small oak table in the corner. Eugene was inside. Or Flash, as he liked to be called. Said it'd be his law name, like how Peter had been dubbed Web Slinger - that it could symbolize the flash of his gun being the last thing any crook would see. He was trying to make it stick, but not many folks were going along with it. Peter called him Flash just to make him feel better because he couldn't stand the sad kicked-puppy eyes Eugene got when he wasn't referred to by his "deputy" name.

Peter limped inside the room, feeling the aches of his body swell to the front of his brain now that he was so close to a medical bag and a bed. Eugene whirled around the moment the door creaked open, Steve's rifle in hand and centered on Peter's chest.

"Whoa, at ease," Peter chuckled, "Just me, Flash. S'been a long night, and I'm not up for a shoot-out, if you don't mind."

Instead of an easy-going laugh and a clap on the back as he helped him bandage his shoulder, Eugene's eyes widened, and he quickly stepped past Peter to make sure the door was shut and steered him away when he was certain it was.

"Stay away from the windows, Pete," he said, holding the rifle more securely, though less toward Peter and more toward the door, as if he expected a monster to burst through at the drop of a hat. "If they catch sight of ya, they'll string you up faster than MJ guzzlin' her morning coffee."

"What are you prattling on about?" Peter asked, looking between Flash and the door and nervously inching away.

"Did anyone see you come here?" demanded Eugene. "Anyone at all?"

"I – uh," Peter rummaged through his brain and shook his head, more out of confusion than anything, "uh – no, I reckon they didn't. I was pretty careful."

"Good," Flash exhaled, and his gaze finally settled on the shoulder Peter was holding, "Stay there. Keep in the blind spot, and I'll go fetch the medical bag." He sat Peter in the chair in the corner, put there specifically because it was the one spot in the room that was out of sight of the window. They called it the blind spot for that very reason, and because it made a superb knucker-hole to hide in whenever outlaws were attempting to break out their buddies. It was helpful to have a spot they couldn't see from outside.

"Eug – Flash, what's going on?" Peter called after him, watching as Eugene's shoulders disappeared into the next room. "What's goin' on? Why can't people see me? And where's Steve and MJ?"

Eugene returned a moment later with the small box of medical supplies they kept underneath the bed in the other room. It wasn't as intricate or detailed as a doctor's bag, but it had enough of the essentials to take care of themselves in the circumstances that the Doc wasn't around. Flash unclipped it and took out the small container of plant-gel, a bottle of raw alcohol, a rag, and a few bandages, and told Peter to take off his shirt and poncho before he answered.

"You're wanted, Pete," he said, after soaking the rag in the water pitcher near the stove.

"Of course I'm wanted. I'm quite the catch," Peter laughed, but it cut into a wince as Eugene gingerly began cleaning the crusted blood.

"No time for jokes," the blonde-man reprimanded sharply. He dropped the rag as soon as the blood was rubbed away and dabbed a new clothe with the alcohol, cleaning the wound again. His jokes weren't always the best, but Eugene's always enjoyed them anyway; telling him to stop must mean it was a truly _serious_ situation. "You're a wanted _criminal_ , Slinger," he continued, unscrewing the gel-container and spreading a thick glob over Peter's red skin, "The whole town's gunnin' for your head."

Peter withdrew from the other man's touch to look at him more squarely, unsure if he was hearing right and whether Eugene wanted to run that by him _one more time_. Eugene dropped his hands a tad and opened his mouth as if to repeat himself, before grimacing and picking up the gauze and motioning for Peter's arm. Peter held it up again, feeling suddenly numb.

"What?" He demanded after a few seconds of open-mouthed floundering. "A – a criminal? But I've only been gone a day! How in the Almighty did I become a _criminal_?"

"It was the Vulture," Eugene spat, drawing the gauze a little too tightly around Peter's biceps to be necessary, "It had to be."

"What's that ol' turkey got to do with anything?"

"You should've seen the way he was raving in town," Eugene shook his head irritably, tying the bandage off with a firm knot, "After you were nabbed by the Dead Rider, he came riding into town, goin' on and on about how you're in cahoots with him."

"Bu – but that's a bunch of hogwash!"

"I know," Eugene agreed, sitting back in his chair now that his work was done. "We didn't think anyone would listen either, but it was...something was different this time. I don't know why, or how, but that geezer got people talkin'. He's claiming you planted those outlaws on Osborn's ranch and was splittin' the reward money with the Dead Rider."

Peter opened his mouth to object, when the door swung open and they both jumped up. Steve bustled inside, looking dead on his feet, but he froze in doorway once he caught sight of them, and when his eyes landed on Peter his shoulders almost dropped clean off his body in relief.

"Thank the Almighty," he breathed, sweeping Peter up into a quick hug that quickly turned gentle when he noticed Peter's recently bandaged arm.

"Steve, everyone thinks I'm-"

"I know," Steve muttered bitterly, "We've tried explainin' the truth, but Mr. Toomes has convinced enough of the story to the right people that it didn't do any good. He's got "evidence" too, and Osborn's backing his claim."

Peter pulled away from Steve's arms, feeling more anxious and puzzled than ever, "What _evidence_? What's Osborn playing at?"

"A piece of paper was found in the barn not long after you were nabbed, back where those poachers was hidin' out. It was addressed to them, sayin' you'd help them sneak onto Osborn's property. But since you helped take em' down this morning, Toomes' saying that you brought the Dead Rider to them, knowing there was a price on one of their heads, and that you were planning on splittin' the money with him. Rider taking you off like that was just part of the plan, or some horse shit like that."

"But that's – that's not true," Peter exploded, running a frantic hand through his dusty hair. "Why would folks even _believe_ that? Why would I ever help an outlaw onto Osborn's property? Especially if I was just gonna kill em' afterward? And who are they to assume that those bandits could read in the first place?"

"Because of revenge," Eugene said, grabbing Peter's shoulders to turn him towards him, "Vulture _and_ Mayor Osborn are sayin' it's cause you wanted revenge on him and you couldn't find any other way to get it. Finding outlaws on his property and then attracting the attention of the Dead Rider would spoil the Mayor's reputation."

Peter's resolve slowly crumbled as that sank in. He pulled himself from Eugene's grip in order to pace the floor rapidly, mind racing as he muttered to himself. In a convoluted sense, he could see how that story would gain some ground. It wasn't a kept secret that Deputy Web Slinger despised Mayor Osborn, and that'd he do just about anything to see Osborn punished for a crime he "allegedly" didn't do. But he'd never do something like this. The townspeople _had_ to know that.

But if the Vulture has gotten to the right people first - people of vocal influence - he could easily sow the seeds of distrust. Besides, in a place like this, some people waited for just a smidgen of drama and seized it eagerly when it happened to cross by. Their town wasn't like the big cities. There were hardly kept secrets and hidden agendas hiding behind closed doors. It probably didn't help that few people in town even knew who Web Slinger was.

Everyone knew Peter Parker, the orphaned boy who lived on his Aunt and Uncle's farm. As Peter, he had a trustworthy reputation as an innocent farm boy with a love for knowledge and books. But as soon as he became his alter-ego - Web Slinger, the mysterious wall-crawling deputy to Sheriff Rogers - that trust began to wither. He always wore a thick bandanna and a wide brimmed hat to keep as much of his face hidden, and adorned a hand-woven poncho given to him as a gift from one of the Native's in the area, after he saved her from a group of road-robbers harassing her for valuables. The town's trust in Steve was enough to get most of them off his back, but Osborn knew better than to blindly trust someone else's reputation. He knew Web Slinger was going after him.

That's why Peter didn't reveal his name; so Osborn didn't have a face to go after. That way, Aunt May wouldn't get caught up in the fight and Peter could keep his discretion.

But that was coming back to elegantly bite him in the ass.

Nobody wanted to trust a faceless man. _Not really_. He could save them all he liked, but no permanent trust would ever take root unless they knew who he was. In a twisted way, it made sense that they'd turn on him so quickly. He wasn't exactly known for being good-mannered either, now that he thought about.

"I can't believe this," he said anyway, "How many times have I helped this town? How many times have I saved their asses?"

"I know," Steve said, clapping a hand on Peter's good shoulder to stop his pacing, "But for now, we need to get you outta here. Mr. Toomes riled everyone up mighty good and they're looking to get you unmasked to face trial. I know how you are with your identity, and why you choose to hide your face, but not everyone'll understand."

Peter nodded in bitter agreement. Unfortunately, this world wasn't blessed with more people like Steve.

Eugene returned, having left the room sometime in Peter's panic, and held out Peter's twin pistols - already cleaned and oiled by the looks of it. It was almost enough to raise his spirits again. He grabbed them eagerly, twisting them over a few times, sliding his fingers along the **BP** engraved on the hilt, and checked to make sure the barrel was loaded before sliding them into their holsters. Feeling their weight back on his hips was like meeting a long-lost friend. He felt considerably better knowing they were back in his possession.

For the longest time, just being near a gun made him sick to the stomach. Their deafening _crack_ when fired had made his heart race and his brow break into cold sweat. But now they felt like a comforting weight. A tool that could harm but was under control in his hands.

"Mary is arrangin' a horse and supplies for you," Steve said, leading them out toward the back, "We figured you'd make it back here on your own, so we needed to get you prepared to leave."

Just as they slipped into the narrow hallway, a loud knock slammed against the door and they paused, almost against their own free will. It was silent for a few seconds, then there was another knock, one that rattled the door on its hinges, followed by an old, gravely voice.

"Sheriff!" it barked, hitting the door again, " _SHERIFF_! I know you're in there. Open the door!"

Steve swore under his breath, "It's Jameson."

Peter bristled.

J. Jonah Jameson, the human incarnation of dog poop. He was a journalist from the city with enough opinions to fill a whole gossip column. He owned a successful newspaper outlet and with his wealth, bought a fine house in town that acted as his summer get-away. But under the advice of his doctor, he'd be staying there for little over a year - maybe two. Apparently, the bustle and clamor of the city was straining the old man's heart, and unless he wanted another heart attack, he should spend time getting some "fresh air."

But Peter knew that was bullshit. Jameson was a crass man who spoke his thoughts loudly and didn't give you room to speak your own. He'd probably strain the very heart of the _city_ before he showed signs of bending – he was much to stubborn for that.

Besides, he'd taken an almost instant dislike towards Web Slinger and pulled his name through muck and mud whenever he could - and he's only been there for _5 months_.

Peter wouldn't be surprised if Jameson has latched onto the Vulture's accusations with withered hands and used all his cunning persuasive power to prove them right.

Steve pushed Peter down the hall, shoving his bandanna back in his hand and tossing him his hat, "Get him outta here," he told Eugene, "I'll handle Jameson." With that he disappeared into the main room.

They didn't wait to hear the proceedings; they hurried down the hall and slipped past the door at the end. They passed through the barred enclosures in the next room, where outlaws and crooks still waiting to get a trial were stretched out on cots or leaning against the wall. It wasn't a desirable route, but it was the fastest way to the storage pantry, where a small, secret hatch led outside the building.

On of the crooks sat up, giving a barking laugh, "If it isn't the desert spider," he preened, curling his fingers around the bars separating them, "hear ya been dealin' with the Dead Rider. Guess there's a bit of spine under that poncho of yours after all."

"Shut it, Dan," Peter snapped, striding past his cell.

"Don't start actin' all high and mighty," The crook sneered at his back, "you're no better than I am, Slinger. You'll be sittin' in a cell next to me by morning. Plenty of time to get back at you for throwin' me in here."

Peter could feel that sinister grin on his skin but ignored him despite the way his stomach writhed. Even the jailed prisoners knew this rumor. Was it really that bad? Had it really spread so quickly within the hours he's been gone?

Having been a part of the law for so long, it was downright twisted to be pushed to the opposite side against his own free will.

Osborn will _not_ get away with it.

They stepped into the storage pantry and Flash peaked out once, before moving aside the boxes in the corner and pushing open the hatch. He ushered Peter out quickly before crawling through himself and closing it behind him.

They hustled across the ground, heads ducked low, hats pulled down, as they slipped into the shadows. They slunk along the roads, taking the back routes and pausing behind buildings whenever a person crossed their path. Most were drunks tootling their way home from the tavern, escorted by a friend or one of the tavern's workers.

They almost made it to the edge of town, jittery from not getting caught, when a shrill biting voice broke the tenor of the night, "It's the Web-Slinger," Vulture crowed, already limping across the road, waving his crooked walking stick in the air, "IT'S THE WEB SLINGER! HE'S TRYIN' TO GET AWAY!"

Eugene swore and pushed Peter in head of him, "Run," he whispered, "I'll distract him!"

Whirling on his heels, Eugene straightened and approached the old man with open arms. "Ah, Mr. Toomes! Been hittin' the barrel again? Too much to drink?" He said it loudly, so those that were peering out of the windows and doorways could hear, probably hoping they'd dismiss Adrien's rattling as the influence of too much alcohol.

Peter would've laughed but his nerves were too on edge. He took the opening heartedly and sprinted fast. As much as Eugene could try, after the show Adrien put on today, people were bound to go investigating. He stuck close to the buildings, but his time was hitting a stretch.

Mary was waiting for him at the edge of town, hidden by the overcast of a building and the shadow of a large tree. Beside her, a freshly packed horse stood. When she spotted him, she waved him over.

"Did the others fill you in?" She asked, handing the reins to him.

"That the town wants to see me hanging?" Peter asked, bitterness seeping, "They did."

"Hey, don't worry," she helped him up on the horse, "We'll clear your name before you know it. Vulture's cookin' up trouble, but he ain't about to pull one over on us. We've got your back, Pete."

Peter believed it. Mary Jane Watson was as tenacious as any law officer in the county, you cross her path and you don't win. Peter's learned to never challenge her in a game of cards.

She handed him the reins again and through the light of the slitted moon, her green eyes glinted like hardened emerald. "Stay safe out there and keep your head down. Head out to the old shack Uncle Ben used to take you for fishin'. I'll ride out to meet ya when your head's not on the chopping block."

"Thank, MJ," Peter said and tried to smile, however tight and grim it felt. "And when I get back, I'm stringing Osborn's hide over the jailhouse door."

Her smile was a lot more natural than his, "So long as I get to help. Now git."

Peter jerked on the reins and maneuvered the horse around. He added over his shoulder, "Might want to go save Flash before the Vulture strings _his_ hide for 'supposedly' aiding my escape," before clicking his tongue and spurring the horse into a run. He didn't look back at the town and hoped that the slim moon wouldn't be enough to give away his fleeing.

With each meter he rode away, the weight of the situation fell more on his shoulders. This was insane. Crazy. Completely bonkers. He was being run out of his own town under a crime he didn't commit. People he's known all his life were wanting to see him hanged because of the word of _one_ man.

And it was all Osborn's fault. The Vulture never acted any way unless told to by Norman. What was that snake playing at this time?

Peter rode out a distance with no signs of trouble, but even then, he waited a little while longer before daring to slow his horse. Despite the treatment Eugene gave his arm, it was burning and pulsing under his sleeve. He'd need to take it easy until it was fully healed.

He glanced over his shoulder, where the only evidence of the town was a faint glimmer of light, and something bitter seeped into his chest. After all he's done for that town, they were ready to run him out the moment a little dirt got on his name. He grew up there, knew its people inside and out. It honestly hurt to know that they were so quick to turn on him.

Feeling as though he was swallowing cactus needles, Peter pushed his hat more firmly over his head, adjusted the bandanna over his nose, and spurred his horse into a run again.

The sooner he got to Uncle Ben's old fishing shack, the safer he'd be, and while the sheer thought of skipping out on clearing his own name made his stomach churn, it was the best he could do given the circumstances. There was a short-cut through the canyon that he could take, and if he kept a steady pace, he would be there by daybreak.

The terrain was dark and foreign under the veil of night, but he's been on enough stakeouts to know where he needed to go.

He urged his horse toward the canyons, forcing himself to not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think you guys realize how close I was to just giving Peter and Wade a one-night stand as their history – and just being suuuuuuper awkward about it cause Wade's an outlaw and Peter's a deputy and yeeesh, that'd be bad with someone found out XD
> 
> There are a few more pictures colored for this story, but I decided to spread them out so they weren't all piled in one chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for reading the first chapter! Hope you enjoy the rest of the story! If you do, please leave a review because they fuel my inner writer.


	2. "And Yet, I'm Not Dead."

With nothing but stars and moonlight guiding him, the loom of the canyons emerged from the ground up and Peter slowed their gallop to a careful walk, so the clop of hooves didn't bounce so eagerly off the rocky walls. The canyons were _much_ harder to navigate in the dark, even under the circumstances that he was using of a torch or lamp – which he _wasn't_ , and that just made it SO much harder. No one liked going through them at night for very obvious reasons, like getting lost or accidentally riding off a cliff. But, he supposed, he at least had _that_ going for him. There were less chances he'd run into someone.

At least, that's what he assumed; but as he hiked farther in, he cautiously slowed the horse to a stop when a yellow dot of light appeared farther up the trail, barely obscured by the many rocks and shadows.

He was positive this was the trail him and Uncle Ben took to the shack, and the only trail Peter knew of that went that far up into canyons; and not many people knew of it either. The flickering of the dot implied that it was a fire, and judging by its size, probably a campfire. Skepticism aside, he didn't want anyone catching sight of him so early in his departure. What was the point of hiding when Osborn and his rats could just ask a group of travelers what they've seen and get pointed right in Peter's direction.

But he couldn't just turn around and take another trail. There _was_ no other trail. Besides, he was too far along already and turning back now would seriously cripple his speed and time was of the essence. He'd just need to be careful, was all. As long as they didn't know he was scooting by, there'd be no harm done.

For this, Peter climbed off the horse and led him by the reins, shushing him softly when the horse nudged his nose between Peter's shoulder blades. It wasn't his horse – nor was it the horse he normally used. He didn't really have one of his own, but Steve had a lot of friends and managed to find him one that he could borrow; jut until he could pay for it himself. But his steed had been nicked with a bullet today, and while the wound might not be deep if it was just a skim, they weren't going send him out again. If Peter had to guess, this looked like Steve's horse – from what he could tell in the dusty light anyway. He may not have ridden this horse very much, but they knew each other, and he followed Peter obediently.

The closer they crept toward the camp, the more details Peter began to make out. The travelers were partially hidden by a cropping of high rocks, of which their fire-light illuminated in a soft yellow glow. Their group was neither large nor small – around 4 people that Peter could count. They sounded like they were in a very heated discussion.

He slowed their trek even more. He thanked the Almighty that the group made camp behind such high rocks, otherwise they might've been able to see him in the light. The scuffle of his feet and the faint thud of hooves went unheard against their rambunctious murmuring and given a few long minutes, Peter managed to slide by the camp without a hitch. He silently congratulated himself, allowed a mental pat on the back, and was preparing to climb back up the horse and continue on his way when a particularly loud burst of their conversation caught his attention.

"-THIS CLOSE TO KILLING THAT DEPUTY AND HE JUST _BAM_! SHOT HIM LIKE THE STUPID ASS HE IS!"

Peter paused, turning an ear toward the camp.

For a bunch of travelers, they sure had some strange stories. Strange and _familiar_ stories. Just how many deputies had almost been killed today within this region? What were they doing up here anyway? Why were they camping out when there was a town just a few miles south of here.

A sinking feeling in his gut told him that there were too many odd elements in this scenario to be normal. They didn't get travelers this far up in the canyons. All the main roads went in the other direction - so what in Almighty's name were they doing so far up?

_Maybe because they ain't travelers._

The sinking feeling turned into uneasy fluttering and he had swallow down the sudden turbulence creeping up his throat. But because he was the biggest dumbass in the west, he wasn't even surprised when he stepped toward the camp. Unease gurgled in his gut, but curiosity was burning wildfire in his brain, alighting it with questions and theories. Just a quick peep and his questions would be answered and he could go on his way – no problem.

 _No. No, no, no, no, no,_ he quickly rebuked himself, shaking his head and put a foot in the stirrup. He had one hand on the pommel and paused.

There wouldn't be any harm if he snuck a peek, right? Just to see who these campers were. It'd be simply; just a glance and then he'd head out. It wouldn't even take as long as reloading a gun if he was careful.

Peter nibbled on his lip in thought, staring down the black expanse of the trail awaiting him. With the glow of the illuminated rocks, the trail seemed so much darker and bleak than before.

Eyebrows furrowed, Peter took his foot out of the stirrup and led his horse a small distance away, hiding him behind the subtle curve of a rocky bend. Angled so no one would be able to see him, and there were plenty of weeds for him to snack on in the meantime.

With that taken care of, Peter slunk along the shadows on the wall and crept behind rocks, hunching low. When he was in a closer proximity, he fell to his hands and knees.

When he was next to the first boulder, he crouched low in the underbrush with his belly to the ground and squinted through the small gaps between the weeds. The angle was off and he couldn't see anyone from this position. Glancing left and right, he got back to his feet and carefully climbed up the rock and flattened himself against it, peering over the top and down at the camp below.

The people around the fire didn't look familiar, but there was something about their demeanor….

They were eating biscuits and hard slabs of dried meat, passing around a water skin that could've had whiskey or brandy in it for all he knew. When they weren't grumbling or arguing, they were joking crassly with each other and calling each other vulgar names. One went as far as threatening to kill another in their sleep, but Peter supposed it was all in good humor because _no one_ seemed concerned by it.

A figure moved in the corner, where a large tree and rock cut Peter's view, and a new man strode back toward the group, likely finishing taking a piss in the bushes. The man didn't even have to make it to the fire before Peter's breath caught in his lunges; he recognized those square shoulder, that bulky, looming height, those clothes. He just saw him in person _that_ morning.

He had stumbled upon Dead Rider and his camp.

Peter's joints locked, feeling like a buck that had just glimpsed a mountain lion. The sudden urge to stay as still as possible overwhelmed him and he felt his body collectively freeze.

But with this new revelation cane its own brand of fury. Peter was terrified they'd see him, but it was his damn encounter with Dead Rider and his crew that put Peter in the position he was in now. If he wasn't injured, tired, and outnumbered - or if he had no brain at all - he'd storm down there and sack the asshole in the jaw again and cart his ass to the jailhouse. But the circumstances weren't exactly in his favor.

He scoot back, preparing to climb down and leave the way he came when a voice belonging to the scrawny, gangliest of the bunch gave a loud groan of boredom and turned to Dead Rider, who had just sat down on his bedroll, "Kay, we killed your target and kidnapped the deputy of the most renowned sheriff in the county, what's the plan now _Dead Rider._ " He said the name mockingly.

"Yeah," another agreed, this one was a gnarly looking man with marred features, a lazy eye, and a chunk of his nose missing. "What's the plan now? You just gonna ride off and leave us ta deal with the mess you stirred up?"

"Settle down," Dead Rider huffed, sprawling against his bedroll with his hands tucked under his head. Unlike the rest of his group, he still wore his bandanna and hat, the latter which was set low over his eyes. "Meetin' the sheriff and his deputies there wasn't the _best_ , but there was no way we was gonna get him if he was carted off to the jailhouse like that. I did what needed to be done."

"Right," the same man drawled, "And it wasn't because that deputy was about to get his head smashed in."

Peters lips pursed, and he leaned in a little closer.

Dead Rider pushed his hat up his head just enough to glare at the other man, "Shut your trap, _Terror._ The crook was in full view; it was an opportunity and I took it. The deputy just happened to be there."

" _Sure_ ," said the gangly one, long and drawled out.

"Not that any of that matters," Dead Rider sniffed, "Let's focus on our actual mark, eh? This one's higher up in the food chain, so we need to move fast now that he knows we're in the area. Get your asses in gear else I'm gonna leave ya for the coyotes."

Peter drew back from that, fingers digging into the rock. The crook wasn't even Dead Rider's _actual_ target? Just a side project? Then why the _hell_ did he shoot him? If he was going after somewhere else – someone higher in the system, apparently, than what was the point in bringing all this attention to himself?

"Gettin' close to Mayor Osborn isn't gonna be easy," said a man closer to the fire, who was warming his hands. He looked like the most honest of the bunch, with easy, almost uncontrived features; but there was a tired look in his eyes and a scowl on his face; he reminded Peter of a librarian. "You gotta plan that's not pulled outta your ass at the last second?"

"Osborn's rich," Dead Rider said, "Not invincible."

"But he's _rich_ and can hire guns to protect him. C'mon, Wade, you've gotta actually put your back into this one."

 _Oh_. This was interesting.

 _Mayor Osborn_ is their target. Well, that was that. Peter figured he'd best just get to the fishing shack and wait out this rumor and hope for the best. If Osborn got caught up in a fight with Dead Rider, _well_ there wasn't much Peter could do about it, now could he? It'd make his job easier, anyway.

But…

Peter inwardly sighed. As much as Osborn deserved it, Peter supposed it was his duty to protect and serve. He didn't condone useless killing, but he did believe in giving people a fair trial. Besides, Osborn had a son. Harry Osborn, one of Peter's longest friends. Norman was a snake of a man with the trustworthiness of a rabid dog, but Harry was nothing like him. He was kind and good-humored and loved his dad a lot - even if he couldn't see what an absolute troll he was. Besides, if they killed Norman, then all of his assets would fall on Harry, and he _definitely_ wasn't ready for that kind of responsibility.

Peter hated Norman Osborn, but he also knew what it was like to lose a parent. He wanted Osborn in jail, getting a trial for his crimes. He might even be hanged if the charges are bad enough - though Peter was begrudging to admit that most rich folks never got the rope. Still, he couldn't let Harry go through the same thing he did, and he couldn't just shove all his morals to side because of his dislike for one man. He was raised better than that.

He'd have to get word back to Sheriff Rogers or Deputy Watson, or Deputy Eugene – whoever visited him first. Peter shuffled backward, taking extra precautions to make sure he wasn't heard, and dropped to a silent crouch on the ground. He paused, then slowly rose to his feet and tiptoed backwards. When there was no alarm or fingers-pointing at him, he took a breath, turned, and abruptly came face to face with a red and black potato sack. A gun was pressed to Peter's middle and his spine went rigid, heart jumping into his throat.

The newcomer didn't say a word but grabbed Peter by his poncho and shoved him down the small path that led to the makeshift camp. He stumbled in the firelight, barely managing to stay up on his feet, and looked up as everyone face around the fire snapped toward him.

Dead Rider peeked out from behind his hat and sat up so quickly it flew right off his head. "Que demonios, Masacre," he said, in what Peter recognized as Spanish. He's heard it from travelers and immigrants traveling the land and was learning it bit by bit. He wasn't good enough to follow a fast conversation though.

"Lo encontré escuchando. Todos ustedes deberían ser más cuidadosos al hablar sobre nuestros planes," the man - Massacre, Peter assumed - said and pushed Peter forward again.

The rest of the group was on their feet by now, their behavior shifting from something less like violent friends and more like the bandits Peter knew them as. Their assortment of weapons appeared in hand, from a long rifle, to a small cutting knife, to a rock (that just seemed mean, all things considered).

"How longs' he been there?" The librarian-man demanded.

"He probably heard our plans," the scraggly one pointed out.

The man with a chunk out of his nose spit on the ground at Peter's feet, "I ain't losing another job 'cause of these law-biders. I say we slit his throat and dump him inna ditch," a rumble of agreement followed, and Peter backed up, fists coming up.

"Just try it," he snapped, wincing afterward because he didn't have a gun and they _did._ The only defense he had was his own two fists, but he'd be damned if he tucked his tail between his legs and let them just kill him.

Dead Rider jumped to his feet, and surprised Peter by stepping in front of him, arms out – almost shielding him from his gang's weapons. "Calm your stirrups," he shouted, staring them down one-by-one, "we ain't gutting one of Sheriff Rogers' deputies. Do you _know_ how many other law-biders that'll attract?"

"Oh, can it!" One of them snapped, gripping his knife more eagerly, "you're just sayin' that cause you're sweet on the deputy."

Peter balked, fists falling slightly. " _What_?"

"That is NOT true," Dead Rider argued, shooting Peter a brief glance, "I'm thinking about the well-being of this group. We won't get paid a cent if we have every sheriff and deputy gunning for our necks. We're not killin' him and if you try, it'll be _your_ neck on the rope, not mine."

They stared each other down for a few more minutes before the man withdrew with a grunt. "Fine," he said, "then what do you propose we do with him, _boss?_ "

Dead Rider looked at Peter again, but his eyes were hard and guarded this time. "Tie im' up and gag him for now," he said, and Peter grunted as two of the men grabbed his arms, "we'll see how I feel come morning."

"Get off me!" Peter snapped as one of them yanked his arms behind his back and the other tugged his bandanna down his face and secured it over his mouth. They dragged him backward, shoved him against a tree and bound his arms behind it. They must've learned their lesson this morning because they bound his elbows, knees, and ankles too – extra tight.

"You're not gettin' outta that," the gnarled one laughed, pushing off the tree - Dead Rider had called him Terror, "but in case you do, I'll have my gun trained on ya. Try to run and you won't make it too far. Not like last time."

Peter glared at him, then down his own hat which had been knocked off his head in their man-handling. That, combined with his bandanna being used as a gag, made him feel too open and bare, and while he reasoned none of these outlaws would know his face, the prospect of them ever recognizing him again left his stomach churning – in the event he made it out of this alive.

He stared at his hat sorrowfully.

He just _had_ to come across Dead Rider again. He just _had_ to sneak up on their camp because he couldn't let well enough alone. He just _had_ to be the biggest dumbass this side of the country. Steve would be at his wits' end if he saw Peter now and Uncle Ben was probably writhing in his grave.

Terror and the other bandit returned to the fire. Masacre muttered something to the dark-haired fellow scribbling in a journal – the librarian-like one, which one validated Peter's observations - and he huffed and got up, striding out of camp. It was probably his turn to stand watch or something. Peter should've known they wouldn't leave their camp unguarded.

He tested the ropes and found them expertly done, more so than they had been this morning. It wouldn't be easy slipping out of them, if at all. They _really_ learned their lesson. He struggled anyway, twisting and wriggling his wrists almost to the point of breaking the skin, but they wouldn't come loose. With a defeated huff, he lay back against the tree.

What would he have done if he got loose anyway? They would notice it the moment he tried untying his legs, and Terror made it perfectly clear that he'd shoot Peter the instant he tried anything.

Ultimately, he was stuck.

He tried not to let that bother him, as good as that did, and leaned his head back, staring through the breaks in the foliage. Despite the glow of the fire, the stars glimmered unnecessarily bright and cheerful for his predicament. He glared at them too.

The ropes were already chafing his hands and his bandanna was getting gross and wet from spit. The bound life was not for him, he reasoned. Couldn't go 5 minutes of sitting still before he felt like ants were crawling through his clothes. His fingers tapped rigorously behind his back and his foot swayed from side to side to keep himself from going completely insane. It could've just been his unease though.

The group was talking again, but their conversation went exceptionally quieter. He tried listening in, but they wouldn't be fooled a second time.

At long last they must've come to an agreement, though not all of them looked very pleased. Terror was scowling so heavily, the shadow casts over his face made his countenance almost ghoulish. His hateful eyes landed on Peter, as if whatever he was mad about was somehow his fault. He plopped down on his bedroll, gun tucked under his arm, and stared in Peter's direction, scowl never lightening.

Peter tried not to let that bother him either.

The rest of the group was settling down too, but Dead Rider stood up from his bedroll, stretching long and hard before he fixed his hat more firmly on his head; he snagged the food rations the small scraggly man was trying to sneak away and strode over to Peter.

Pete wasn't sure where to look. Glare at him? But the glow of the fire made his stature more dark and looming. Refuse to acknowledge him out of spite? Sounded kind of childish. He's never really been a captive before, and he wasn't sure what actions to lead with. He didn't want to it be like last time, with Peter too scared and stunned to even say anything.

As long as Dead Rider knew that Peter didn't plan on giving him an easy time, he supposed it didn't matter what he did.

Dirty boots stopped in front to him as Dead Rider crouched, head tilting as he looked Peter over. His eyes glanced at Peter's shoulder, where a red, blooming stain was growing just beneath his poncho, on his sleeve. In their hauling the other two must've reopened his wound and pulled the bandage out of place. The skin around the injury felt hot and it stung when Peter put too much thought toward it. So he tried not to think about it.

Dead Rider didn't mention it, so neither did he.

The man fiddled with the food he took before leaning forward. Peter recoiled from his hand, but Rider only yanked the bandanna down so it settled around his neck.

With Peter's ability to talk restored, Dead Rider settled down more comfortably and said, "You know, I've heard a lot about you, Slinger. Even before that little escapade with Firearm X. Just some tall tales here and a few rumors there. A lot of crooks are startin' to get twitchy with ya. I mean, I thought they were all a bunch of hogwash myself; scaling walls like a lizard was kinda pushin' it, you know?" He talked conversationally, as if they were two friends having a chat over coffee.

Peter raised an eyebrow. He had planned on staying silent, but his inborn desire to argue wasn't one to leave a discussion alone.

"Says the guy who _apparently_ can't die."

Dead Rider shrugged, neither confirming nor denying it. "Well, that's _different_ ," he opted to say instead, as if that was all the explanation Peter needed, "But after watching you climb that wall this morning, I couldn't believe my eyes. You gotta be part lizard or _something_ , because," he whistled.

Peter rolled his eyes, "Were you goin' somewhere with this or did you just come here to stroke my pride?"

"There are some other things I could stroke if you want," Dead Rider sniggered. Peter was less impressed. "Nah, I'm gettin' there. Point is, I was told you was something to fear. A real bullet, if you will. Which is why I _gotta_ know why you thought creepin' on my camp was a smart idea?"

Peter's glower deepened, "I didn't even know it was your camp till I saw you stompin' around," he bit, "And you're lucky it was just me. Your camp could be found from miles around if anyone with a pair of eyes was looking."

"Well, aren't you the law?" Dead Rider cocked his head, amusement visible in his eyes. "Wouldn't I consider it unlucky to have you stumblin' 'cross my camp?"

Peter blew out a harsh breath. "Alright. You got me there."

"Anyway, my _point_ is, Web Slinger, if you're so smart, why did you think it was a good idea to try and get the jump on us."

"I wasn't trying to get the jump on anyone," Peter huffed, "Wouldn't have caught me if I was tryin.'"

"Right."

"Spiders go unnoticed for a reason."

"They also get squashed for a reason."

Peter raised his brow again, "And yet, I'm not dead."

That seemed to put Rider on the spot. He leaned away from Peter, expression becoming something unreadable; but instead of answering the question, he dangled the bag of stale food in Peter's face. "Got some food."

"I can see that."

"Does everything that comes out of your mouth have a snake bite to it? Or is that just my charms?"

Peter snorted, "You say that as if you haven't been probbin' at me since you came over here."

"So it _is_ my charms?"

"Not on your life."

It was Dead Rider's turn to lean forward, "Haven't you heard?" His voice dropped and through the firelight illuminating the edges of his form, Peter could vaguely see his narrowed eyes. "I have more than one life."

Peter wasn't one to back down from a challenge though. He tilted his head up, staring back. "I don't believe things I don't see with my own eyes. Give me a gun and I'll test that out myself."

Dead Rider was quiet for a moment before he erupted into loud laughter. Shaking his head, he untied the cloth and held out a piece of dried meat. Peter's stomach grumbled, having not eaten anything since that morning, but he stubbornly turned away.

"What? Our measly outlaw rations not good enough for you?"

"I'm not hungry," Peter replied stiffly, hoping his stomach wouldn't take his fib as a challenge. It didn't grumble, thankfully, but Dead Rider still didn't look like he believed him.

He probed the meat closer to Peter's lips, pushing it against them, and Peter shut his lips tighter. Rider must've accepted the determination on his face, cause he didn't push it. He shrugged and pulled Peter's bandanna back up, retying it snugly before tugging his own bandanna down to bite into the meat himself. He rose as he did, so Peter didn't get the chance to see much of his face.

But as he turned, the campfire light illuminated the left side of his head and Peter spotted rough patches of skin and scar tissue that ran along his cheekbones and jaw. The fire caught a pair of blue eyes that glanced down at Peter one last time, before he tugged the tip of his hat down and returned to his bedroll.

Peter recalled the stories that painted Dead Rider as an incubus, with a face that no one could resist. Of what he's seen, Peter figured it was definitely a face no one could forget.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Peter still struggled against the ropes, in hope of loosening them and making his escape while everyone slept, but he was disappointed every time they didn't budge. Oh if Eugene could see him now.

Despite his inability to loosen his restraints, he had a feeling it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Terror kept a firm watch on him, even when the embers of the fire burned low and the heavy breathing of his compadres filled the silence. And when he got tired, he woke another member of the posse and they switched, that way Peter was constantly being watched.

So, Peter gave up on his chances of escape and settled down for a bit of rest instead. He was plum-tuckered from the events of the day and his arm was a steady, pulsating heat of pain. He prayed that it wouldn't get infected.

The tree was hardly comfortable to lay against, but with some fidgeting that earned him the weary grunt of the man watching him (his features too shadowed by the night for Peter to recognize) Peter found a semi-comfortable position and looked up at the sky. It was late summer, so the night wind wasn't so biting, but it still chilled the tips of his fingers and raised an army of goosebumps over his body. He shivered and curled in as far as he could, which wasn't very much.

He looked for sleep.

It was one of the most uncomfortable nights of his life. He woke up periodically throughout the cold hours, sometimes unable to go back to sleep when growing knots burrowed into his back, and sometimes he only managed to doze. The occasional night-crawling bug skittered across his fingers or the sleeve of his shirt, and he was unable to do much to brush them off other than jerk his arm or wiggle his fingers.

It felt as though the night would never end.

So when the light brushing of dawn finally began painting the sky above, Peter nearly sobbed with joy. It still didn't come fast enough though and brightened the sky as lazily as Vulture would when given the prospect of getting out of bed. Peter's frustration with the sun's slug-like behavior only worsened when the rest of the outlaws began to stir.

The smaller man who'd been keeping watch of Peter took particular enjoyment in rousing the others through loud talking, making as much noise as he could, and even throwing dirt and rocks on those who weren't getting up fast enough.

This behavior earned the wrath of his entire group, _particularly_ Dead Rider as he woke up to a mouth full of dirt, and Peter watched in equal parts amusement and bewilderment as they chased the man around, scrambling for anything sharp that was within arm's reach.

But judging by the fact that none of their guns were pulled out, Peter figured they didn't intend to really _harm_ him. In fact, quite a few of them resigned themselves to cleaning up their bedrolls after just a few minutes of chasing, and Peter came to the conclusion that they were actually _used_ to this kind of behavior.

While he's never been woken up through rocks and dirt, Peter could recall torturous mornings when he was bluntly pulled from sleep by either MJ pouring a cup of cold water on him, or Flash jumping on him while he was in bed. Steve was the more merciful of them and usually woke Peter up with a freshly brewed cup of coffee and a pleasant "Good morning!"

Unless you got on his bad side. That's when he snuck MJ and Flash on you.

Dead Rider was the last to give up on chasing the man, and didn't stop until he had him trapped in a headlock and was forcing him to apologize or 'else he was eating dirt for the next few days'.

"Don't push me, Slappy," Rider warned as the man flailed helplessly. "Apologize and I'll let you go."

"Eat ass!" Slappy choked.

Rider didn't seem as offended by this comment than he did by the fact that he hadn't been issued an apology yet and tightened his hold. Slappy lasted a few seconds longer before he gasped out an apology. True to his word, Dead Rider let go and Slappy instantly put space between them, flipping Rider an indecent gesture as he went.

If Dead Rider saw it he didn't comment, or even care, as he scooped up his fallen hat and tugged on his gun belt, where it had been folded carefully by his bedroll. He unwrapped his many guns, most which had been swaddled in its own cloth to protect them from the sand, but the rifle had been left within arms-reach and a hand-gun had been tucked under his shirt-pillow.

He looked them over with the gaze of a man in love and refit them at his waist with a loving kiss bestowed to each one. Peter could understand the safety a gun brought, but crooning at them like a love-sick teenager?

He shook his head. Crazies. All of em'.

Massacre, the one of the potato sack over his head, left the camp only to come back with Steve's horse in tow. Peter watched in anger as the bandits all whooped and grinned as they trifled through his saddlebags.

His extra ammunition was the first thing that landed in Dead Rider's hand, followed by his guns, and then his rations of food and extra clothing.

"Cheese!" Slappy exclaimed, holding the two oiled cloths in hand, "I haven't had cheese in weeks! Months!"

He snarled and bit at Terror's hand when the man tried to snag them for a look.

Peter mumbled something into the bandanna, too angry to care that his words went unheard. Dead Ride noticed his outraged muttering, but his only response was to give Peter a hearty thumbs up as he added Peter's ammunition to his belt.

"Got us a fresh horse, too," he mused, rubbing Steve's horse down. "Had these here saddles on all night did ya," he cooed, "Poor thing."

A flush of indignation. Peter hadn't _intended_ to leave his horse out during the night, still saddled up and in need of rest. He was taught better than that.

"We'll have someone rub you down and groom ya before putting the saddle back on," Rider soothed, patting the horse's nose. "There's a good boy." He handed the reins to the man with the knife and finished rolling up his bedroll before sauntering over to Peter. His hat and bandanna were fixed snugly over his head again.

"You know," he said, crouching in front of Peter, "You really should take better care of your animals."

Peter glared at him over the bandanna, not caring to hide his contempt.

He didn't say anything though, refusing to give Dead Rider another thing to laugh at. Dead Rider's eyes gleamed in amusement anyway, but instead of poking at Peter more, he produced a wedge of cheese and some of the stale jerky from the night before.

"You hungry now or are you still chewing on your pride?"

Peter glared harder.

"Pride it is," Dead Rider rolled his eyes, "Hope it tastes good, then. Soon as you're ready to spit it out and get some real food in your belly, give me a holler. Or, well," his fingers tugged lightly on the bandanna over Peter's mouth, "a muffle, I guess."

Peter jerked from his touch and didn't drop his glare till Dead Rider was back by his things. As soon as the man was gone, his stomach dropped its façade and growled hungrily, as if reminding Peter that he _was_ starving.

 _I know, I know,_ Peter grumbled to himself, _But I ain't takin' their damn food._

Technically it was _his_ food.

Still, he was going to escape before long and he could eat when he got to the shack. He wasn't about to let them lead him off to his own death. No _thank you._

As soon as the rest of the camp was packed up, Terror and the library-man finally untied Peter and lifted him to his feet. His legs were dead from lack of blood circulation and wobbled loosely as he walked. He yanked the soggy bandanna out of his mouth as soon as his hands were free and rubbed his sore wrists where the ropes chafed his skin.

"Get your hands off me," Peter snapped when Terror grabbed for his arm, "I can walk on my own."

"You sure about that, deputy?" He glanced at the way Peter was using the tree as support.

"Yes," Peter insisted, though he didn't let go of the tree right away. He took a few more seconds of rubbing his wrists and letting the blood run back through his legs, even if it made him feel like he was walking on cactus needles, before allowing himself to be walked toward the cluster of horses that were being saddled up.

They stopped him in front of Dead Rider, who had been busy strapping his saddle to his horse. The outlaw raised an eyebrow when he noticed them. "What?"

Terror gestured to Peter, and Dead Rider made a show of looking him up and down, all slow and observant in a way that had Peter flushing, "Yeah, _and_?" Rider asked.

"What do you plan on doing with him?" Terror huffed. "We can't have him tagging along while we snuff out-" he paused, glancing briefly at Peter, "while we're doing our _job_. So what are we doing with him, right here, right now?"

Dead Rider turned back to the saddlebags as if this conversation didn't interest him, "We'll ransom him," he said easily, "Off wonderin' on his own, his Sheriff will probably pay a handsome sum for the safe return of his pretty head."

"We can't ransom him _now_ ," library-man said. "It'll ruin everything."

"Well, I didn't say we'd be doin' it right this minute," Rider drawled, finishing up the straps and giving his horse a gentle pat on its hindquarters. "We'll stash him for now and when we're down with our little " _job_ " we'll fetch him again and hold a ransom."

"That's mighty big tricky," library-man warned, holding his chin thoughtfully, "If this…' _job'_ goes right, then we'll have a lot of law-biders on our tail. Would dangling one of their deputies in their face be a smart move?"

"It'd be a mighty fine distraction," Rider laughed, "While you yellow-bellies head east, I'll hold the Deputy for ransom and give you plenty of time to get clear of the war-zone. I may have been gone for 2 years, but I've handled my fair share of tricky situations, and I can handle this too."

Despite being called a "yellow-belly" Terror seemed to like this plan, "As long as it's your neck in the noose," he mused pleasantly, "Sounds like a plan to me."

Normally, Peter would've objected to being talked about, especially when he was _right in front of them_. But if they were so keen to spill their plans in front of him, who was he to complain?

Were they careless?

Or were they just confident they could keep him holed up?

Either way, he chose to stay quiet and soak in as much information as he could.

"Then it's agreed," Dead Rider said, finally acknowledging Peter, "If his deputy would be so inclined to honor us with his presence for a time longer," he winked.

"Does he actually get a say in the matter?" Peter returned.

"Nope."

"Then why ask at all?"

Dead Rider shrugged, "Figured it was the courteous thing to do."

"Keep your courtesies to yourself and spare us both the torture."

Terror snorted and library-man quickly covered up his laugh with a weak cough when Dead Rider scowled at them both. When he turned back to Peter though, he didn't look offended; more appraised.

"Alright," he said holding his hands up, "Consider all my courtesies gone," but he stepped closer so they were face to face with barely an inch between their feet to spare, "So don't start bellyachin' when you can't handle it."

Peter didn't back down. He crossed his arms. He'd feel a lot more confident if he had his bandanna on; facing off against someone bare-faced made him queasy. But he'd hogtie himself before he let this outlaw know that.

"The only bellyachin' you're gonna get is _this_ ," and Peter promptly punched him in the stomach, pushed him to the side, and grabbed the nearest saddled horse. Neither Terror or library-man were prepared for the action, nor did they have their guns fastened to their hips. Slappy and Stinger were still squabbling over Peter's rations of food. Masacre was tending to the horses farther off and had his shotgun slung over his shoulder, but Peter figured he could make it far enough to use the canyons walls and bends as cover. This was the perfect time.

The horse he picked was a big, sturdy black mare that did little to stop Peter when he swung himself over her back. He gripped the reins and clicked his tongue to urge the horse to go and she lurched forward. A burst of triumph ignited in Peter's chest. Third time escaping the Dead Rider - that _had_ to be a record.

But his victory was short-lived.

The horse skittered to a dead halt only a meter or so away when a low whistle followed them on the wind, and wouldn't move an inch despite Peter's promptings. It was if the horse had been replaced with a big stubborn donkey within the seconds that he'd blinked.

Dead Rider picked himself up off the ground with a loud laugh, dusting himself off with ease. The rest of his posse gathered around Peter only seconds later, guns trained, and Peter sighed, lifting his hands.

"You know," Rider said, snatching the reins from Peter's hands, "That might've worked if you'd picked anyone else's horse but mine. Then again, figured you might try something given the first opportunity. Guess it's a good thing I had Bea so close."

Peter's resigned irritation turned flushed and red. Had Dead Rider _anticipated_ that? Had he figured Peter would take his first chance of escape and kept his horse close to trick him?

Peter scowled, but climbed down when Dead Rider gestured him to, more so because Terror was favoring his gun with a rather eager look in his eyes than because he wanted to. He kept his hands up as he stopped in front of Dead Rider, shoulders rolling slightly, "Can't blame a guy for tryin'."

"True," Rider shrugged, but gestured offhandedly and Slappy offered him a long string of rope, "But it did prove that you can't be trusted with your hands free. So let's see them, Web Slinger."

Peter grit his teeth and kept his hands resolutely by his sides out of sheer pride. Dead Rider nodded toward the knife-man, who grabbed Peter's wrist and forced them up. Dead Rider bound Peter's hands again, making them a little tighter than what might've been necessary; maybe his stomach was still hurting from that punch he gave him - though Peter's hand probably hurt more. Why the hell did it hurt so much to hit him?

"Alright," Rider said as he tied the last knot, "Let's get ridin. Stinger, watch the deputy. Don't let him try any more funny business."

'Yeah, I'll succeed where you failed," library-man - or Stinger - grumbled as he grabbed Peter's bound wrists and pulled him along. Peter was kept under lock and key as they finished packing up their hastily made camp. Terror rubbed down Peter's horse before fitting him with the saddle again, and had Peter hoisting up there in no time. He tied Peter's hands to the saddle pommel, before pulling himself atop his own.

Dead Rider was the last to mount up and he looked back over his posse. "Let's go," he said and knocked his spurs into his horses' flanks and they were off. Peter kept a tight hold of the saddle pommel as they ran and did his best to shift with its gait, so he didn't fall off and get dragged a couple miles.

He's mastered the art of softening his landing in the case that he fell from his horse, but even if he wanted to purposefully jump, he couldn't do so with so many rocks around to knock his head on, nor could he do it somewhere where he didn't have a hiding place. It didn't help that his hands were tied either.

His shoulder was aching terribly now. It was now obvious that the bandage and come undone and the wound had now reopened several times. But it was still _tolerable_. He needed to get it rebandaged as soon as possible, as soon as he got clear of these outlaws, and hopefully there wouldn't be any permanent damage.

The posse did not ride quietly, and the journey was spent through jeering comments over the snapping of the wind. Occasionally they'd slow down to let the horses rest up. Despite late-summer, the heat was still absolutely unbearable, so whenever they crossed a small brook or watering hole they let the horses drink.

Giving their direction, Peter figured they were heading toward Costa Loca. A relatively large town some way from the cliffs and a good long ride from his hometown. It wasn't near the coast, as _Costa_ suggested, but it _was_ built around one of the largest running rivers in the West. It was a power town that was as much trouble as a tavern full of trigger-happy drunks. Shady people ran the taverns and gambling houses, and there were prostitutes and harlots around every corner, dressed in clothes unbefitting for the public. Peter's been there a few times with Steve, usually to track down a few of their own outlaws who'd taken up residence there.

The Sheriff of the town was a wryer looking man who went by Justin Hammer. He wasn't impressive, but he _was_ rich, second only to Tony Stark. He wanted to be mayor, but everyone knew that Costa Loca had no mayor. They barely even had a Sheriff, given that Hammer barely lifted a finger to keep the peace. It was a town that didn't make sense. It ran on no system and it was every man for himself.

Still, it wasn't the worst place in the West.

Regardless, Peter couldn't be spotted there. His poncho was too well recognized. Made with brightly died colors of red and blue, with an old Indian spider-symbol right in the center. It was a gift and he wore it proudly – but going into a town of cut-throats and outlaws with it on and it was like wearing a bright and shiny target on his back, especially being on his own. There would be no Steve and his terrifying reputation as a law enforcer to keep the bandits at bay. No one dared lay a hand on Steve Roger; but Web-Slinger wasn't as revered yet.

What were they _thinking_ taking him to a place like that?

He needed a way out and he needed it soon.

Peter bent down to straighten his hat, but kept his head tucked low so the wind wouldn't blow it off. It was already so blasted hot, he didn't need the full power of the sun bearing down on him too. He used it to his advantage to get a good look at the ropes. They were tied well, but not as tight as they'd been last night. He could wiggle out of them; he just needed a way to break off from the group without being spotted right away. The canyons were falling quickly behind them, with only the occasional hill or rock to break up the plains of dirt and weeds – and maybe the occasional tree.

Still, the closer they rode to Costa Loca, the more likely they'd run into more bandits.

The next time they stopped, it was to munch on Peter's food rations.

Peter edged his horse a bit closer to Stinger's this time. He played it off as an accident, but when their backs were turned, he tugged and loosened the reins to his horse, which had been fastened to Stinger's saddle. Not enough to come undone completely, but given a good tug, Peter could pull them free. He didn't dismount and sullenly turned down Dead Rider's offer of a slab of cheese and dried meat when the man came over.

"You need to eat something," he said with a sigh. "You can't really live off flies and lizards."

Peter scoffed, "Those rumors are a bunch of hogwash," he glanced briefly at Rider and corrected, "I eat _bandits_ and _outlaws_. Just waiting for the right moment before I pick you all off. Maybe wait till your all plump off my food before I devour you."

"I think you're puttin' your expectations too high. We'll be wrinklier than ol' Blind Al's ass if this heat has anything to say about it."

Peter snorted, "Maybe I like my food a little dry. Good with a cup of whiskey to wash it all down."

Rider leaned lightly against the horse, "As fun as it is word-playing with you," he mused, "You're not distractin' me from that the fact that you need to _eat_."

Peter exhaled roughly and looked away. Usually he could veer people off track when he talked, but perhaps Rider was a bit more focused than he realized. And determined.

"C'mon," he continued when Peter didn't answer, "You're probably starvin' by now, and by the looks of ya, you probably need some water too."

Now that he mentioned it, Peter was feeling over-heated – ever since they left the canyons behind, actually. And his tongue felt as dry as the desert.

"Food and water," Peter said blandly instead, ignoring his suddenly parched throat, "Just what every human being needs. Glad you know the basic needs for living."

"Heh, I'm only dead in spirit, Web Slinger. But the rest of me," he gestured loosely to himself, "Is very much alive."

"Good to know I'm not talking with a ghost."

"You're doing it again," He held out the food, "Take it or else I'm gonna stuff it in your mouth instead."

They met each other's eyes and Peter knew they were both holding back their own retorts to the concealed innuendo. After a long moment, Peter sighed and took the slice of cheese with his bound hands, if just to get the man off his case. He made a point of taking a bite and chewing.

"There," he said, "I'm eating."

"Good. Now let's see you chew and swallow and we'll see what other tricks you can do."

Peter gave him a vapid look but contemplated spitting his food at him. But it really was good and he was _starving._ So, instead, he knocked Dead Rider with his boot and took another bite of cheese. Satisfied that he was eating, Rider tipped his hat in a show of mock chivalry.

"You'd said you'd drop the courtesies," Peter remarked as he walked away.

"Yep! Startin' now."

Peter shook his head and nibbled on his cheese. Even with something in his belly, it did little to ease the sense of dizziness that had been creeping up on him since they started riding. The heat was probably getting to him. Maybe he was getting a little too dehydrated.

He accepted the drink Stinger offered, swallowing as much as he could, before handing it back. Then they were on their way. The water helped for a little while, but it didn't fix everything.

Peter was starting to feel very flush and sweat was beginning to drench his shirt. Perhaps staying tied to a tree all night and eating and drinking nothing for more almost an entire day was a tad unhealthy.

Still, he didn't draw attention to himself. He didn't need them investigating him while he was preparing to escape. He needed their attention _away_ from him.

After riding a little more distance, when there showed no valid signs of cover or miles, Peter decided it was now or never. When he and Stinger ended up at the back of the group, Peter cautiously shimmied out of the ropes and tugged at the reins, so they came undone. Stinger whirled to the side when Peter's horse was slipping away but Peter slapped the hindquarters of his horse so it took off, and effectively startled the rest of the group into brief chaos.

Using the distraction, Peter gripped the reins and twisted the horse around, and urged it into a run with a loud " _HiYEAH_!"

There wasn't much cover out here, but if he could just get out of their bullet range, he'd be fine. He could hear them arguing at his back and his nerves ate away at him, dreading the moment he'd hear a gun-shot and feel the biting pain of a bullet.

When nothing came, a thrill of victory ran up his spine. But another crash of dizziness over swept him just as suddenly and combined with the sudden speed, his vision blurred. Peter groaned, nausea hitting him _hard_ , and found himself tipping off the saddle, becoming light-headed. His arm hurt so bad. He felt flush with heat and his head was hot with pain. He barely managed to roll with the fall when he hit the ground, but it was rough and knocked the breath out of him. His head smacked against the Earth.

He must've knocked himself unconscious, cause when he came to, he was surrounded by the outlaws again. At least he _thought_ it was them. The sun bore down, blinding him, and it took him a moment to realize he was trembling. His breaths were shallow and loose in his chest.

"Is – is he okay?" Slappy asked uncertainly, bending over to get a better look at Peter.

"For a big ol' deputy, I figured he had the skill to stay on his horse," Terror grumbled, but there was something in a voice. A doubtful tinge.

Then Dead Rider's bandanna appeared in Peter's blurring line of sight, "Hey, you hear me Slinger? You okay?"

Peter couldn't reply in any other way than a loud groan and Rider fidgeted uneasily. His hand hovered over Peter's forehead before he realized he was still wearing his gloves, and pointed sharply at Stinger, "Feel his forehead! Does it feel hot?"

A hand touched Peter's forehead, warm to the touch, but a lot less warm than it should've been. "Everything's hot out here," Stinger huffed, "But he does feel a little overheated."

Dead Rider's fingers grazed Peter's injured arm, but he didn't say anything. After a moment he motioned toward Terror, "C'mon, help me get him up."

Hands curled under Peter's armpits as they hoisted him onto his feet. As soon as he was back on his own weight, Peter swayed, and Dead Rider quickly caught him again.

"Creo que está enfermo," Masacre mumbled. "Necesita un doctor, Wade."

"Come on, then," Rider said sharply, and he leaned Peters weight onto himself as helped him over to his horse. "He'll ride with me."

Peter's thoughts swam in and out of clarity, but he did register when he was hoisted onto a horse, then someone following him up. Peter managed to ride with his back straight for a few feet, before he slumped back against Dead Rider's chest, trying to swallow past his dry tongue. A canteen of water pushed against his lips and Peter drank.

"There you go," Dead Rider mumbled, "Let's just keep ya hydrated, alright."

Peter groaned again, shying away from the heat of the sun. It was so hot out, yet he was trembling so badly. He knew a fever when he felt one and it made him crave the gentle touch of his Aunt's hand when he was sick. She'd make him soup and keep by his side until he was better. Almighty, he missed her so much. He hadn't even been able to say good-bye to her when he left town.

"Just go to sleep," Dead Rider whispered near his ear, "I won't let you fall."

That was debatable. Illogical. Even downright stupid, but for some odd reason, Peter believed him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh....
> 
> Also, a beautiful picture of Peter in his Web-Slinger outfit. 


	3. "That Was My Drink You Bastard"

  


When Peter woke up again, he was in a room.

It was a room he didn't recognize. The windows were drawn with heavy curtains, making the only source of light a sliver of yellow-white that peeped between the dark fabric. The light didn't extend well to the rest of the room but as soon as his eyes adjusted, it was much easier to make out the night-stand next to the bed, the dresser propped against the wall, the desk in the corner, and the vanity mirror on the wall.

He sat up slowly, the mixture of dizziness and nausea making his body idly sway. He rubbed his pounding head with a groan that sounded too loud in the silence and the other hand clutched the quilt more tightly to an effort to keep himself grounded.

When he wasn't in danger of falling over the bedside and was roused enough to ignore the pain in his head - more or less – he finally addressed and rubbed at the sting in his arm, noticing for the first time that he was shirtless. Bandages mummified his arm and part of his torso, and past the thick strips of cloth, the wound beneath burned with every microscopic flex of his muscles. Still, whoever had treated him in his sleep didn't do a shabby job. His body still felt flush and sick, but it wasn't as bad as it'd been before. He could think coherently at least, so that was a good sign.

For an evanescent moment, he contemplated climbing out of bed and investigating his new environment, but instead he slumped back against the pillows, another groan bubbling up his throat. Even while motionless his limbs shook, muscles and tissues trembling on his bones like a wet cat. Chills prickled up his body, bringing with it a new flush to his skin and he shuddered, somehow shaking _more_ than before _._

Internally, he knew he needed to get up and _do_ something; he wasn't in a familiar place and while his head felt like a child's drum - relentlessly pounding and causing too much racket - he was all too aware of who he'd been traveling with before any of this happened. Dead Rider and his posse were probably lurking somewhere, kidnapping other innocent deputies who were just trying to run from injustice.

He needed information, a new change of clothes, and preferably, a way to escape. But just the idea of getting up made him so sick, his stomach took it as a sign to empty itself and he had to breathe deeply in order to stop himself from hurling over the bed.

Fortunately, a creak from outside distracted his stomach and he looked up as the doorknob rattled and turned as someone entered the room. Peter sat up quickly, only to double over and groan as his stomach lurched and he performed more deep breathing to get his nausea back under control.

"Oh, good," a familiar voice said, "You're awake."

Terror strode across the room and set a cup of water on the stand next to the bed. "Wade'll probably want to see you now. _Almighty_ knows he's been fretting like a mother hen ever since you pulled that little stunt."

Peter took a gulp from the glass but resurfaced to level a scowl at him when he realized what "stunt" Terror was referring to. "Right, pullin' a fever and falling off my horse. Whata stunt. _Pardon_ my theatrics."

"Eh, don't get your badge in a twist," Terror grumbled, waving him off, "How's we to you know you were gonna come down like that?"

"Maybe you shouldn't tie people to trees," Peter said, taking another long drink.

"Maybe you shouldn't be stickin your nose where it don't belong," Terror snapped, and plowed on, ignoring it when Peter opened his mouth to retaliate, "Anyhow, I'll let Wade know you're up so he can stop gettin' on Bob's back. The guy can only take so much more before he's gonna break into hysterics. Stay there and don't try anything," he pointed a stern finger at Peter as his hands closed around the doorknob, "You're in outlaw country now, Deputy. Your kind don't make the rules here."

The door closed.

As soon as Terror's steps receded, Peter downed the rest of the water and swung the blankets off, deciding that he wasn't going to lie around in bed - fever be damned. He legs felt hollowed out and weak, but he used to bed stand and wall to guide him along the room, hopping from furniture to furniture. He didn't approach the door right away and opted toward the window instead.

He sidled slowly up against the wall and used his finger to probe the drapes to the side. It looked to be morning, if the shadows and sky were accurate. Had he slept an entire day away? Or more?

He couldn't recall much after he collapsed, but he remembered snippets: like Dead Rider's voice in his ear, murmuring nonsensical blather that Peter didn't have the mind to piece together. He remembered the feel of his arms lifting as someone took something off him. He remembered the shift and pitch of the horse's gait he'd been riding, and the hard body he'd been propped against. He remembered the feel of Dead Rider's arms as he carried him into a hazy building. He saw glimpses of another man's face, someone he didn't recognize. After that it was just snippets of waking up in that bed, sometimes with a figure sitting in the corner and other times when he was completely alone.

The streets looked full to bursting outside, bulging at the seams with horse-drawn wagons, lone riders, and crowds of people walking along storefronts, taverns, shops, and hotels. So much busier than his town back home.

The curtain fell back and Peter sighed, leaning his head against the wall and closing his eyes. He should be at the old fishing shack by now. Mary Jane and Eugene were probably already there with news, wondering where the hell he was. Aunt May probably heard the rumor by now too. What was she thinking? She wouldn't believe it, would she?

The thudding of steps brought Peter out of his thoughts as the door flung open and Dead Rider stepped in. His eyes landed on the empty bed first, and for a moment Peter thought a burst of panic twisted the lines between his eyes. Until he turned and spotted Peter leaning against the wall and exhaled deeply.

"So, you _are_ awake."

"Yeah," Peter said unhelpfully, straightening up. He hoped the other man couldn't tell just how sick he felt. "What's it to you?"

He saw right through Peter, _of course._ "Shouldya be out of bed right now? Bob says you need bed rest and lots of fluids."

"I'm fine," Peter grumbled, but Dead Rider wagged a finger at him.

" _Nuh-huh_ ," he said, "Don't give me that shit. You look like you're about to pass out. Get back in bed before you fall on yer face and make a fool of yourself again."

"Where's my poncho?" Peter asked instead, pushing from the wall and walking past Wade to scrounge through the drawers of the dresser. "And my shirt, for that matter."

"Had to take your poncho," Rider answered candidly, "If the folks here saw you in it, they'd already have your hide, seein' how you've got yourself a reputation as a law-bider. It's hidden in my things, so ya don't have to worry bout' it getting' stolen"

Peter scoffed, "That's rich coming from bandits."

Rider closed the door as he leaned against its frame, arms crossing, "Believe it or not, not _all_ of us want the junk you carry around with ya. Your poncho's safe, alright.

"An' what about my shirt?"

"Bob took that. Needed to bandage up that arm. Says you'll be lucky to shoot with it again without any hitches. Lost a lot of blood."

Peter shot him a dirty look, "And who's fault was that?"

At least Rider had the decency to look guilty, "In my defense, I didn't expect you to leave it unattended."

"I didn't expect to be run out of town and tied to a tree all night, and yet..."

Dead Rider went suddenly stiff and he cocked his head, "You...were run out of town?"

"As if you didn't know," Peter grumbled. When he looked up though, he had to do a double take. Dead Rider was looking at him like he was actively confused; as if he didn't have a clue of what Peter was talking about. "Almighty, you _really_ don't know, do you?"

"Care to enlighten me?"

"Well," he snapped the drawer shut, "After that little fiasco by Two-Stone Canyon, Vulture decided to spread a little rumor that me and you were in cahoots. Somehow, the rumor got some ground and it's turned my whole town against me. I was run out before I could get a glass of water, much less a chance to defend my case. Whyda think I was out there the other night to begin with? I wasn't havin' an evening stroll."

"I _was_ wondering about that," Rider admitted, rubbing his chin.

"Well, now ya know," Peter hobbled away from the dresser and back to the bed. He slowly crouched next to the nightstand to look through its drawers as well– not so much to look for his things but to keep his hands busy. It helped him ignore the sloshing in his stomach every time he turned too sharply. Besides, he didn't like this uneasy feeling of being in a place he didn't know, and moving at least made him _feel_ like he was doing something.

Not that it helped because he was at the complete mercy of Dead Rider and his crew, who could easily blab his real status as quickly as they could pull a blade and steal your money. Terror had been right when he said Peter was in outlaw country. He was out of his element and out of the safe jurisdiction of the law. Here, he could be found dead in a steam house and no one would bat an eye. He could disappear off the face of the planet and no would care to look for him. Telling everyone that he was a deputy was an invitation to pull him in a back alley and shoot him up. Hell, it'd be considered a public service in these parts.

Knowing that he was in such a vulnerable position made him twitchy. He needed something to do to keep himself calm.

He quickly finished looking through the nightstand and stood back up, holding his injured arm with a grimace. He glanced at the desk as his next stop, but it was clear across the room and he felt _this_ close to throwing up.

Dead Rider was watching him silently, arms crossed, and hat tipped down so it overshadowed most of his face. His silence didn't help Peter's anxiety. It made him wonder what kind of scheme the outlaw was cooking up.

"You're worried," Dead Rider stated after a moment. It wasn't a question, but a simple observation.

Peter wondered if he really was _so_ _obvious_.

"No, I'm not," he mumbled anyway and turned, fingers fluttering against his thighs. "I want my guns."

"Look deputy, I know your feelin' itchy here. I don't blame you, it's how I feel when I'm stuck in a room of law-biders. But you're my leverage. My winning card, if you will. I'm not gonna let anything happen to ya."

Peter snorted sharply, "Nice to know you care for my well-being so much."

"You wanted me to stop my courtesies. 'Side's, I'm just telling it how it is. You're an investment, Slinger, and I ain't gonna let a bunch of back-water rats cap a bullet in ya. As Sheriff Rogers' deputy, you're much too valuable for that."

Peter rubbed his wounded arm roughly, wincing at the pain, but it did wonders to clear his head. "Least you're bein' honest," he said. "But I still want my guns. You can't expect me to stick around here without a way to protect myself."

"Not like you have a choice," snorted Rider, "But I don't think you'll pull anything stupid. You're supposed to be smart, last I knew, but you ain't getting a gun till you're back in that bed and restin' up."

"Yes, _mother_ ," Peter said snidely but sat on the edge of the bed. He remained there for a minute or two, as if to make a point, before slowly lying back down. He tugged the blanket halfway up his chest and sagged down in the pillow. His feet cheered to have his weight off them and the nausea was much more tolerable lying down.

He sighed quietly and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. He was so blasted tired. The sheer fact that everything in his body could ache at the same time never failed to astound him.

Dead Rider pushed off the door frame when a few minutes of silence passed and approached Peter.

Peter glanced at him through squinted eyes, and although the guns at Rider's hips made Peter anxious, he forced himself to remain still.

But the outlaw only grabbed the empty cup on the nightstand. "I'll have Slappy come up with more water," he mumbled and was walking out of the room a few quick strides later.

It took a few minutes before Peter was relaxed enough to pull the blanket over his body and sink into the pillows. Or, well, relax as much as one could in the situation. Despite exhaustion weighing him down, the knowledge of where he was being held was a good deterrent for sleep.

What if someone snuck into his room and killed him? Or _worse_? He's heard plenty of stories of people getting ravaged in their sleep, and a lot of them happened in places like Costa Loca.

He took a deep breath that turned into a cough halfway through. He was going to drive himself even more sick thinking about it. He supposed whatever happened would be a divine moment of fate and his life was in the hands of the Almighty now. Still, he'd feel a lot better with a gun tucked under his pillow.

There was a pencil laying on the desk, and after a moment or two of thought, Peter got up to retrieve it before sliding back under the blankets. It wasn't a gun, but it was better than nothing.

Given his less than ideal situation, he expected to be gripped by anxiety all throughout the day, unable to find a moment of peace to rest his sickened body. Yet, somewhere amid the tussle of his mind, his body slipped into sleep. He was unaware of this until he was dreaming of canyons, gunfights, and a lone outlaw adorned in red.

* * *

"Why am I wearin' this?" Peter demanded.

"So you fit in, Deputy," Stinger snorted, his back turned as he rummaged through the drawers of the dresser. "Do you know how suspicious you look in that git up?"

Peter looked down at his bare bandaged chest and arm, and down at the pair of riding pants he's worn for the last few days now. They were muddy and gross. He looked back up at the new shirt he was holding up, and the pair of pants laid out on the bed.

"I'd say I look like trouble _without_ your criminal clothes."

Stinger turned, one arm on the dresser and the other on his hip. "Dead Rider aside, we don't all dress up in kooky outfits to get attention. Besides, your shirt was cut away so Bob could clean ya up and your pants belong in a pig-pen. Believe it or not, Deputy, but we can dress nicely too."

Rather than comment on the validity of that statement, Peter said, "If ya'll want me to keep a low profile, perhaps you'd better stop callin' me deputy. It's a bit on the nose."

Stinger shrugged, "Sorry, can't say we know your name other than Web-Slinger, and I reckon every cutthroat will be climbing through your window with a loaded gun if we called you _that_."

"Regardless," Peter said, putting the shirt down, "don't you think we should be more _careful_ given our situation?"

Stinger shrugged again and tossed a pair of leather holsters on the bed too, followed by two guns Peter was all too familiar with. Peter swept his firearms in his hands earnestly, holding them close to his chest in case Stinger would try taking them away again.

Stinger didn't do anything but chuckle and backed off with his hands up. "I'll leave ya to get dressed. But I'm telling you now, I'm watching the door out here and Masacre's waiting just under the window. You try anything, deputy, and we'll fire on ya. Dead Rider wants you alive, but we won't hesitate killing you if it means keeping you from spillin' our plans. Understood?"

Peter glowered, "Understood."

Stinger nodded and with the tip of his hat he closed the door on his way out. Peter stared down at his new clothes for a few moments, dragging a hand down the back of his neck, before sighing and shirking off his pants.

His arm was stiff and it hurt to move; he didn't _dare_ move it quickly or jerk fast, for fear that it would reopen the wound and _then_ where would he be? The chance that his shooting arm wouldn't heal right was already so high, he didn't want to screw it up even more.

It took some time, and a lot of frustrated tugging, but he managed to strip off his old clothes and pull on the new ones. By the time he was tucking his guns into their holsters, Stinger was knocking on the door, inquiring if he was done.

Peter looked at himself in the vanity mirror. Both the shirt and pants were dark colors, and the hat he'd been given was a brown cowhide-type leather. He could only see his middle on up, but it'd have to do. He kept his hurt arm pinned close to the stomach, took a breath, and opened the door.

Stinger looked him over and nodded, "Pretty good I guess. Let's go."

Peter grabber his sleeve before the man turned, "Wait. Do...do you have anything for my face? I'm not comfortable looking so," he let go of the bandit's sleeve to gesture to his naked face, "bare."

Stinger squinted but nodded. "Yeah, I think I can find something. Now come on, Dead Rider's waitin' for us downstairs."

Peter's been wondering where Dead Rider had gone off to. He hadn't seen him since he first woke up, a day or so ago.

After falling asleep, he's been visited by Stinger, Slappy, Night Terror, Fool Killer, and even Masacre, but never Dead Rider. It was as if the bandit had completely forgotten Peter existed.

Peter tried not to be offended.

He straightened the wrinkles from his shirt again, tipped the hat forward so it did a better job of covering his eyes, and followed Stinger down the polished wood steps. The stairwell was squared and straight, turning sharp bends down its 3 flights of stairs. The farther they went down, the more Peter could hear.

The light music of a piano - with violin and harmonica thrown into the mix - as the velvety overhang to a buzzing murmur of conversation. Stiff from his night next to a tree and still achy from a ride on a horse he couldn't even control, Peter's gait was limp and rigid, the tendons of his legs and arms too strained to accommodate the necessary movements that came with walking downstairs.

The main room was like any other tavern Peter's been in, complete with a bar, tables strewn for conversation and cards, and musical entertainment in the corner. It was just nicer than most tavern/inn's Peter's been to. _Hell_ , back home, the tavern and inn were two separate businesses.

Rather than old wood chairs and chipping tables, the furniture here was polished dark wood. Peter couldn't say what kind it was, as wood types had never really interested him, but it looked expensive. That, combined with the soft golden glow of the lights, made the room seem both dark and luminescent. The glasses were all clear surfaces and sharp edges, polished to shine bright, and the tables sanded and smooth.

The people occupying the chairs didn't quite fit the fancy ambiance of the room, though. Several wore dirty scuffed riding clothes that suggested they'd been in a recent fight, others were sporting their own wounds, from a bandaged eye and crutches, to cut lips and wrapped knuckles; but they all shared a particular glint in their eyes. An expression made up of hard edges and cold calculation that snagged onto Peter's stiff walk as he made it to the bottom of the stairs. It reminded of how predators might hunt – looking for the weakest of the herd, finding it's every imperfection, and pouncing when it strayed too far from the rest.

Stinger walked along the edge of the wall, avoiding table clusters and inquisitive eyes, and Peter eagerly followed him to the back of the room. The rest of Dead Rider's gang were already there, situated in a darkened corner and nursing drinks in their hands. Dead Rider was there too. Peter had felt Rider's eyes on him ever since he stepped onto the cool wood floors.

Stinger gestured swiftly to the open seat next to Dead Rider, but in a way that was hidden from the craning necks looking their way.

Peter took the seat, which happened to be the last open one at their table, but Stinger didn't seem to think that was much of an issue. He turned to the table closest to them and jerked the chair out from under the man that had been occupying it and swung it over to their table.

The man swore loudly as he surged to his feet, his hand already going for his gun as he sought out his offender. His eyes found Stinger first, then he looked past him to the rest of the gang; all who already had their guns pointed at him. If that wasn't enough to get him to keep his calm, his eyes flickered briefly at Dead Rider and something different passed through him. His hand pulled away from his gun in favor of holding them up into a mollifying gesture.

"Problem?" Dead Rider asked.

The man shook his head, "S'all good here. S'all good," he said though his voice was hoarse and his skin a tad paler in the light. "You lot have a good evenin'," and without another word, he turned and grabbed the _other_ open chair by his table and hurriedly returned to the game with his colleagues.

Peter didn't understand why Stinger hadn't grabbed _that_ one instead.

Rider took a sip from his glass and leaned toward Peter to whisper, "Stop lookin' so confused, or people'll start to notice."

Peter quickly schooled his expression and focused his attention on sipping the drink Dead Rider slid over to him as he reevaluated his situation.

More onlookers peered suspiciously at their tables, but given the way their eyes lingered on Peter, he had the looming sense that they weren't watching because of Stinger's interaction with the other table.

"Why are they looking at me?" Peter whispered back, hiding his mouth behind his cup.

"Everyone's been mighty curious ever since we carried you in here the other day," was his answer, "Haven't heard anythin' from Bob, me, or my crew, and most of these folks like knowing all the gritty gossip 'round these parts."

"Well, tell them to stop."

Dead Rider snorted, "I can scare the piss off them, but I can't stop them from _wondering_."

"Well, they're going to be wondering a lot more if you two won't stop whispering," Terror muttered, downing the rest of his drink. "They'll think you two are gettin' hitched if you get any closer."

Peter leaned away from Dead Rider.

But there was something about that phrasing. He eyed Terror suspiciously and set his cup down, fingers rubbing against its cool side. The words were innocent enough, and they _had_ been leaning in rather close, but it was the way Fool Killer and Stinger suddenly found more interest in the bottom of their glasses - and the suddenly _pointed_ smirk on Slappy's face - that told Peter that there was something a bit more to that statement than light teasing. He glanced at Dead Rider, who too was suddenly transfixed with the smooth surface of the table.

Peter's gaze jumped between them all, one by one, but each refused to look him in the eye. All except Terror who was rolling the drink in his glass in amusement, lips quirking as if he knew some hilarious joke that Peter didn't.

Peter scowled, "Alright, what'd you do?"

"I think I need another drink," Stinger sighed and pulled himself from the table to visit the bar for a refill, uncaring for the barmaid standing nearby who could have easily taken care of that for him. Fool Killer quickly downed the rest of his too and followed.

"Me too."

Slappy, on the other hand, leaned forward with his head in his hands, eyes bright as if expecting a show. Terror leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink in relish, savoring every drop. "Wade," he said, "I think you better answer this one."

Wade - or Dead Rider - Peter didn't have much time to dwell on the name. He's heard them say it before, back in the camp, but it was hard to substitute it for Dead Rider when that was all Peter knew the bandit as. Besides, he didn't know if he wanted to refer to him as Wade. Made it seem like they were friends or something.

Peter turned to Dead Rider, who exchanged the tabletop for the ceiling. "My, the foundations lookin' a little weak," he muttered and Peter's eyes narrowed.

"Dead Rider," he growled, barely checking himself so the people undoubtedly trying to eavesdrop couldn't hear, "What did you do?"

"I think they got new flooring too. Very nice."

"Rider."

"This whiskey is good."

" _Wade_."

This time Dead Rider tensed and slowly looked at him. Peter's hands clenched and unclenched around his glass, and he glanced briefly at the neighboring tables, before inching closer to the bandit, eyes narrowed and voice sharp. "What. Did. You. Do."

"It's less of what I did and more of what we all _said_."

Peter took a deep breath through his nose, "Then what, pray tell, did you say?"

He hesitated again, clicking his tongue against his cheek a few times as if brewing up the words. Out of the good, kind, graciousness of Peter's heart, he gave him a few seconds to figure out a final plea before he inevitably gutted him.

"I...may have told some people, a few really, that you and me are rather...close," he said.

Peter's grip on his glass tightened, "Close? How _close_?"

Dead Rider leaned in toward him and one arm snuck around Peter's waist, pulling him closer. He whispered into Peter's ear, in a way that Peter figured would look sultry to those who were watching, "What do _you_ think?"

And for a moment Peter couldn't say anything. It wasn't for a lack of words, and more because there were _so_ many things preparing to spill out of his mouth - the majority being several unflattering things would make Aunt May wash his mouth out with soup - that he couldn't stitch them together fast enough to make a coherent threat. Dead Rider's hand was still on his waist and Peter unstuck his fingers from the glass to shove him away.

It was less of a shove and more of an insistent push. His injured arm was in the way, having been pressed to Dead Rider's chest, so it really took away from the force Peter was trying to use. Vaguely, he was aware that his face was flushed, and to some it might've looked like he was blushing.

But he was pissed and Dead Rider could see that too.

He was wearing his bandanna, even indoors, but Peter could've sworn he was smirking.

"What. the. _Hell_." Peter hissed.

"It was for your own safety," Rider said quietly, and Peter is envious of the way he gets to hide his face. "Nobodies gonna be messin' with you if they think you and I are involved, and with your little secret, _deputy,_ " he said this so quiet, Peter almost didn't hear, "I'd think you wanted to take as many precautions as possible."

"Shove it up your ass," Peter bit back and it infuriated him when Dead Rider laughed.

"Exactly, you're catchin' on quick."

"That's not what I was sayin'!"

"Look," Terror interrupted, though he looked like a child in the front row seat of a circus, "it was our best bet, alright. These folks know that Wade doesn't keep much company, nor does he make many friends. But with all the rumors about him, any of these suckers would believe he's been harboring a secret lover, especially because of the time he took off. Nobodies gonna be givin' you trouble if they think the _Dead Rider's_ fucking you every night."

Maybe it was Peter's pride, or maybe he was just frustrated with the circumstances he was in, but he didn't even try to stop himself when he snapped, "Well, who says he's doin' the fucking?"

At that Wade threw his head back with a laugh loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room. It didn't seem to bother him as he slapped his knee and swung his arm around Peter's shoulder. "Gotta say, I like where this conversation is headin',"

Peter was about to shrug his arm off, but only managed to stop himself just _barely_. Dead Rider and his posse were right about one thing: his grand spectacle of showing up in this town, knocked on his ass with an infection, with the likes of _Dead Rider_ and his gang of bandits keeping everyone else in the dark about it, had put them in a precarious situation. Everyone in this very tavern was probably chomping at the bit to know more, Peter could see in their eyes. It was the same look old Jameson got every time he thought there was something juicier in the mix.

And if any of these people were like Jameson, they'd do just about anything to learn more. Peter could honestly believe that Dead Rider's reputation was the only thing keeping the hounds at bay. Unless he wanted to become target practice, he needed to play his cards right, and right now, his best bet was using Dead Rider's reputation to his advantage, however unpleasant he went about it.

So, he gritted his teeth, steeled his nerves, and leaned into Dead Rider's body, intertwining his fingers with the hand dangling over his shoulder.

That wasn't what Dead Rider was expecting, and because Peter was so close, he got a front row seat to the way the outlaw sputtered on his own tongue and looked down at Peter with comically wide eyes.

"Well then," Peter whispered to him, pulling on, what he _hoped,_ was a coy smirk, "We best give them a show, don't you think."

Even Terror stared, stunned, as if he'd been expecting Peter to make a spectacle rather than live with the hand he'd been dealt. Slappy's jaw was on the table.

Dead Rider was the first to snap out of it and he leaned back in his chair, all easy going and leisure like. He grabbed Peter's glass of whiskey and drank the rest of it. Peter played an unproblematic smile, as if sharing their alcohol was a normal thing, but tilted his head up to whispered into Rider's ear, "That was my drink you bastard."

"What, I thought you were just holding it for me."

"Well, how 'bout I hold my gun to your head?"

"Over a drink?"

"Well, these past few days haven't exactly been _fun_. Told you I liked a bit of whiskey to go along with my prey."

Two rough-looking gunslingers walked to the nearby table, pretending to be talking to the people occupying it, but their heads were angled a little too far their way to be natural.

Dead Rider took notice and said a touch louder than normal, "Don't suppose I can expect some company tonight then. I know how _restless_ you can get," and waggled his nearly hairless eyebrows, as if to say: _checkmate._

Peter curled his hand into the collar of Dead Rider's shirt, and pulled him closer "Definitely," he said, loud enough that he knew their eavesdroppers could hear, "Not," he added under his breath.

He let him go and sat forward in his chair. Stinger and Fool Killer were back now, and probably noticing that Dead Rider had drunk his glass empty, Stinger slid another drink over to him. But Peter grabbed it before his "lover" could and stared Rider, dead in the eye, as he downed it in one gulp. He set the empty glass in the man's hand and got up, "Now we're even."

Checkmate.

He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room as he walked back along the perimeter, toward the staircase. He still felt stiff and achy, walking on plywood for legs instead of flesh and bone, but he kept that to himself. With one hand on the stair banisters, he started back up to his room, only glancing back at Dead Rider and his posse briefly.

Fool Killer, Terror, Stinger, and Slappy were divulged in heavy conversation, heads dipped low, but Dead Rider was still watching him, eyes now hidden by the shadows of his hat and the distance between them. Peter gave him a quick smirk and brief salute but didn't wait long enough for Dead Rider to return the gesture, whether he was going to or not.

If he wanted to play this game, then fine, they would. As long as he understood the rules applied to him as well.

* * *

An hour or two passed before Dead Rider crept back into Peter's room. He was wobbly on his feet in a way that suggested he's had a little more than a few extra drinks, but a smaller, knobby-looking man was following his sashaying hips into the room, clutching a large carpet-bag in his wiry hands.

"Rooms taken," Peter said from the bed, where he'd been involved in a long boring staring contest with the ceiling. He's already worried over his circumstances more than enough to look at it from every angle and his mind had wandered into a state of numbness. A part of him still couldn't believe that just a few days ago he'd been in his own bed, rereading one of the few books their library provided as he snacked on a plate of Aunt May's home-made scones.

"Not here to fool 'round," Dead Rider said, his voice slurring only a little, so Peter figured he hadn't drunk himself into a mindless stupor, just enough to feel a little light-headed with a satisfying tingle in the fingertips. "He's here to look ya over again," he gestured back at the man with a flitting gesture.

The smaller man leaned forward, and Peter was worried he was going to fall right on the floor if his legs hadn't moved in time to catch up. He scurried over to Peter's bed, pushing the large round glasses back up his thin, gaunt face.

"I - I'm Bob," he introduced himself, "One of Dead Rider's associates."

"You're his friend?"

"More of a personal doctor," he admitted, putting his bag on the bed, "Now lay back please, just like that, there we go. Oh, uh, wa-wait, we should probably take your shirt off before - unless you'd rather I cut it off again."

His stammering and stuttering was punctuated by his fingers nervously wrangling each other, and Peter would've pegged him as the worst doctor he's ever encountered if not for the small, agitated glances he snuck at Dead Rider, who'd leaned himself against the dresser.

It didn't take much to put two and two together.

"Do you need to be in here?" Peter demanded, looking toward Rider.

Bob made a small, strangled noise in the back of his throat, throwing Dead Rider an anxious glance.

"What, someone's gotta make sure you don't hogtie him and leave him for the rats."

"As far as I'm concerned, the only rat in here is _you_. Can't you see you're making him nervous? Just go wait out in the hall or something, I don't need him to accidentally slip and reopen the wound _you_ gave me."

Dead Rider scowled, his eyes darting between Peter and Bob, the latter who was staring loyally down into the blanket, his fingers curled into the bag handles with white knuckles. Rider huffed and grumbled something sour under his breath and tromped to the other door in the room – leading to the bathroom - and slammed the door shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, Bob let out a breath and visibly relaxed. "Now then," he said, still tremorous and shaky, but he opened the bag with a bit more confidence, "Get off that shirt and let's take a look at that wound."

Peter did as he was told and slowly, carefully, unbuttoned and tugged the shirt off, discarding it on the nightstand nearby. With further instruction, he lay back against the bed as Bob scooted forward and began unwrapping the layers of bandages. He put it to the side and leaned forward, dabbing an alcohol-infused cloth around the gross, purple-blue area of the wound.

"You really shouldn't push him," Bob muttered, between whispered apologies when Peter winced from the sting, "He can have a temper."

"Well, so can I," Peter grit.

"He's not the one with only one functioning arm."

Peter huffed but could credit him that. "You were pretty nervous with him around. Why? Has he..." he trailed that off, suddenly uncomfortable. He's gotten in trouble more than enough times when he asked prying questions, especially ones so sensitive. But Bob merely shook his head with a short, somewhat tight laugh.

"No - well, nothing he's ever followed through with. He makes a lot of empty threats, mostly to scare people. He'll follow through with them if you push, but, no, he hasn't hurt me. I'm much too valuable for that," Bob looked up through his glasses with the beginnings of a smirk, "It's tough to find reliable doctors around these parts. Even if he can get a bit...pushy, he wouldn't harm me."

"So, he threatens you to stay with him? As a personal doctor?"

At that Bob scratched his chin, mulling the accusation over. "In the beginning, I'll admit that was more the case," he said slowly, "He saved me from a hostile robber a while back and I repaid him by fixing up the scrapes he got out of it. The more him, or his posse got hurt, the more they came to me, and people notice things like that. He protects his assets, which is what I, well, _we,_ " he corrected, staring Peter in the eyes, "That's what _we_ are. His assets. You don't need to worry about him hurting you, either."

Peter scoffed and pulled his eyes from Bob's knowing gaze. "So, he won't hurt me, but I shouldn't tell him to get outta here if he's just in the way?"

"Like I said, he pulls through on his promises, or threats, when he's pushed. You twist his arm too much and he'll twist yours back."

"Thanks for the tip," Peter muttered and winced again as Bob looked over the stitches he'd given Peter in his sleep. The doctor hummed to himself, seemingly satisfied with how the thread was holding up, and produced a new set of clean bandages from his bag.

He pressed a cloth against Peter's wound and began rewrapping him.

"You know," he said as he worked, "He was really worried about you when he brought you in."

"Well, like you said, I'm an asset, aren't I? Sure he'd hate to lose his leverage."

Bob hummed again, but there was something in the slight curve of his lips, and the look in his eyes that suggested a different thought that he didn't seem fit to share with Peter. All he said was a soft, "Perhaps," as he finished wrapping the bandage and carefully set his tools back in the bag.

As he got up, tugging his medical supplies with him toward the door, Peter looked past him, imagining where Dead Rider was. Leaning against the bathroom wall, arms crossed? Standing straight, hands on his hips as he waited for Bob to finish? Had he been trying to listen to their conversation?

He lay back against the pillows, imagining what it must've been like to see one of the deadliest outlaws in the West carrying a flushed, sick stranger into a hotel; a fellow no one around these parts knew at all. He wouldn't be recognizable to them without his signature poncho. Just a regular man with a mysterious connection to the infamous Dead Rider. That probably stirred a hornet's nest in the town, and it was no wonder everybody had stared at him downstairs; he was a hidden nugget of gold to them. A strange piece to a machine that made up the man who couldn't die.

But the ploy was on them, because Peter didn't know him at all. He was just a poor sap who'd gotten mixed up in something he hadn't meant to. Sticking his nose into a situation when he was already running from a noose. How long before they realized Peter was just a piece of fool's gold, tricking them into thinking he was something special.

Dead Rider opened the door when Bob approached and exchanged a quick, whispered conversation with him, before closing the door behind the doctor and locking it. Peter raised an eyebrow.

"In case you've forgotten, we're in _Costa Loca,_ " Rider said, "Only the dead keep their doors unlocked."

Peter's lips twisted and he fixed Dead Rider with a firm look, "Noted, but what are _you_ doing in here?" Peter stiffened and sat up in the bed, hand curling under the blanket for his gun, " Just because we're...we're _pretending_ to be fucking, doesn't mean I'm actually going to do it,"

"At ease," Dead Rider said flippantly, flapping a hand at Peter as he started unbuttoning his shirt – was it Peter or did Rider suddenly look a lot less…bigger than he normally did? "I'm not gonna _ravage_ you. People expect us to share a room, bein' lovers, besides' someone's gotta keep an eye on you and make sure you don't try to sneak out on your own. What a disappointment to Sheriff Rogers when he finds out his deputy was robbed and shanked behind the tavern."

Peter scoffed but fell back against the pillows. He kept his hand curled around the gun anyway, not quite ready to give up its protection yet. "How'd ya expect to watch me when you're asleep? You sleep with your eyes open."

"Nah, but I wish I could."

"Good, cause I couldn't sleep knowing you were watching me."

Dead Rider finished unbuttoning his shirt, but before taking it off he twirled his finger in the air; a common gesture to turn around and Peter almost laughed at the ludicrously of it. The Wests deadliest outlaw was _modest_. But he turned his head anyway. Dead Rider's shirt hit the floor, and judging by the _click_ and _clink_ following, his pants joined them a moment later.

Peter stemmed the unease in his belly. For however long Peter knew him, he didn't think Dead Rider would "ravage" him, but now that the thought was planted in his mind, and with his back to the other man, suddenly he wasn't feeling so sure. "You done yet," he demanded when the seconds ticked on.

"Hold your horses, Slinger, I'm just making my bed." One of the blankets was yanked off of Peter's legs and he jerked slightly, and doubled over, grabbing his shoulder with a hiss. "You really need to relax."

"S'cuse me for being a little paranoid," Peter snapped, glaring at him over his shoulder, "I'm not usually held against my will."

Rider was kneeling on the floor, arranging the blanket and pillow he'd stolen, before slipping under his makeshift bed. His lay with his back was to Peter, covered from shoulders to his feet, and his head blocked from view with the wide-brimmed hat he had yet to take off, but Peter couldn't unsee what he'd seen.

He noticed the rough ridges making up Dead Rider's skin the other night, under the glow of the campfire, and the few times when he got close enough to Peter for him to distinguish any details. But before slipping under the blankets, Peter couldn't dismiss the harsh red skin that had peered back at him, broken up with healed over tissues, smooth, hairless patches of skin, and scars that littered his body the way flies littered a cows hide. He only saw a glimpse before Dead Rider hid them again, and judging by his modesty within the blankets too, Peter suspected that he wasn't meant to see them at all.

He turned away again, feeling something like guilt flushing his skin. As quickly as he could, he lay back into the bed and tugged the extra blanket up to his chin, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't have any pajama's, so he'd have to spend another night in his clothes.

The image of red, scarred skin painted the fixtures above.

"You've got to be careful, deputy," Dead Rider murmured from the floor, "Tomorrow's gonna be tough. You've got to make a name for yourself before people get too daring."

"Whatdya mean? I thought your reputation was my protection."

"It is...and it isn't. There's only so far you can go on someone else's fear. You've got to get them to respect you for _you_ , else they'll eat you alive the moment I step away."

"I...I don't know if I can do that..."

Dead Rider was silent for a spell. Then, "You remember what Stinger did tonight? How he took that man's chair instead of getting his own?"

"Yeah."

"That's what I'm talking about. That wasn't for no reason, Slinger. That was a reminder not to fuck with us. Reputation, respect, and fear is what'll keep you alive here. He took that man's chair to let everyone know that he could, and there was nothing any of them could do about it. It was a power move. There are no courtesies here. Just enough paranoia and fear to keep everyone at an arm's length."

"So...what? you want me to take someone's chair?"

"I'd suggest doing something else. Your own thing. Get their attention, demand their respect. Get them afraid to mess with you."

Peter glanced sideways at the darkened wall that Dead Rider was probably staring at too, "My arm's messed up, Rider. How do you expect me to make them afraid like this?"

"Figure it out. You still got one good shootin' hand. Besides, most people are more bark than bite. As long as you sound impressive enough not to fuck with, they'll keep a distance till we leave again."

Peter let the silence linger. He didn't know how to respond. This place was so different than when he and Sheriff Rogers visited. The rules were contradictory to everything Peter knew. He wasn't staring at the town through a film, he was living in it now. Moving with it, abiding by its laws and order. He couldn't use the reputation he's grown as Webslinger, he had to start from scratch, and he had to do it quickly.

The thoughts of escaping and making it back to Steve, and Mary, and Aunt May and everyone back home was still a steady beat in his heart, but he couldn't see when that would happen. Not yet at least. He was stuck here with no other options than to listen to Dead Rider's advice.

Instead of assuring the other man that he'd figure something out, Peter turned over on the bed, staring at the opposite wall. The silence followed them long into the night, but Peter had a feeling that neither of them fell asleep for some time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last picture will be posted in the last chapter!
> 
> See you there


	4. "What Did We Get Ourselves Into, Deputy?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter! Whoop! Whoop!

If the stares from last night were bad, they only got _worse_ the next day. Peter made his way along the back wall, to the same table they had the night before. Fool Killer was already there, sipping on a cup of coffee. Slappy was next to him, looking dead on his feet, and Masacre across the table who was sitting quietly with his arms crossed. Peter slid next to Dead Rider, who looked as worse as Slappy and in a sorely bad mood.

Peter had woken that morning to Dead Rider folding up the blankets he used last night. He was already dressed and in full gear by the time Peter was blinking and sitting up in bed, but Peter had an inkling that Dead Rider was one who didn't enjoy getting up early in the way he grumbled and yawned throughout his morning routine. Although Peter figured he _might've_ had a hand in the outlaw's bad mood to start.

Dead Rider had given him instructions to get dressed and meet everyone downstairs, and instead of dropping information bombs on Peter unexpectedly in public (like that fact that he and Wade were essentially "lovers" to the eyes of Costa Loca) Rider actually stopped to give Peter the crucial information _before_ he re-entered society.

As good as that did him.

"My bandit name is _Ricochet?_ " Peter had demanded. "You couldn't have come up with _anything_ better?"

"Shut up we were on a time crunch," Dead Rider snipped back, offended in a way that had Peter guessing that _he_ was the one who picked out the name.

"It makes me sounds like a fool shot," Peter continued, "Like I can't hit a target."

"Well, with that hurt arm, it's a plausible story, ain't it. Besides, Ricocheting bullets can be deadly. They became a target to anyone if they actually end up rebounding. I didn't have a lot of time to come up with it okay, do you want to hear the rest of your backstory or not?"

Peter had more or less agreed, though he was still hung up on his silly name. If he was going to pretend to be an outlaw, he at least wanted a cooler trademark other than an inability to aim straight.

"And remember, don't give anyone your actual name, we'll only refer to you as Ricochet. But in the circumstances that you _do_ have to give a name, you need to come up with a fake one. So whatcha gonna use, so I don't end up calling you Tim-Joe or somethin'."

"Uh..." Peter scrambled for the first names that came to mind, "Ben...Reilly. I'll be Ben Reilly." It was his deceased Uncle's first name and Aunt May's maiden name.

"Ben Reilly," Dead Rider tried on his tongue, "Not bad. Reminds me of some epic, angsty twin brother or something. Now as for your backstory," Rider spun on his heels flamboyantly, hands gesturing in the air as if he was preparing to tell an epic romance, "We met 2 years ago, just after the dry season. I met you on one of my last jobs; you new to the bandit world, and me the generous teacher willing to show you the ropes. Over the course of training you as a bandit, we grew closer and closer and fell in love, and with your sweet-talking, you convinced me to take a few years off for just the two us. But now, we're back in our stirrups and taking jobs again."

Peter wrinkled his nose, " _That's_ my story? Why couldn't I be the swash-buckling rogue from a different part of the West? Or a just menace? Why do I have to have the lame bandit name _and_ backstory?"

Dead Rider planted his hands on his hips, "Because it's fucking romantic and I'm the leader of this group so I get to decide, " he looked more pouty than angry. "Now get dressed and meet us downstairs you sourpuss, unless _that_ doesn't suit your fancy neither." He slammed the door shut after him.

Peter sighed, rolling his eyes, but set to the slow, strenuous work of swapping out the clothes left for him without reopening his wound, which led to him downstairs, ordering the blackest coffee they had and a plate of eggs.

"Did Rider tell you everything?" Fool Killer asked, smearing a healthy layer of honey butter on a biscuit.

"That I have the lamest bandit name ever? Yeah, he mentioned it."

"Told you he wouldn't like it," Stinger said and Dead Rider flipped him a rude gesture.

Fool Killer paused to take a long drink of his coffee, "Good then," he said when he resurfaced, "Now we shouldn't worry about slippin' information on accident."

"A silver dollar says that one of use will slip up by tonight," Terror bet through his chewed up eggs; he pointed a fork at Slappy, "And an' extra nickel that Slappy's the one to do it."

"Oh yeah?" Slappy demanded, "I'll take that bet! But my nickels on Dead Rider as the one who spills."

Dead Rider nearly spit out his bacon, "S'cuse you, bastard. I can keep a secret!"

"I'm with Slappy," Stinger said, "My nickels on Rider too."

"Your dead to me, Stinger. Pack up your stuff and hit the road."

Fool Killer looked across the table at Peter, "Well, I'm betting _Ricochet_ slips up first."

Peter lowered his fork from his mouth to glare at him. He'd just been enjoying his breakfast and judging them all for their life choices; and hearing his newly christened outlaw name didn't help his irritation. "Hey, don't you bring me into this."

"Puedo estar detrás de eso," Masacre spoke up and Peter almost jumped. He forgot the man was there; he was so quiet he seemed to just melt in with the furniture. Peter was still working on his Spanish, so he only got snippets, but he was pretty sure Masacre was agreeing with Fool Killer.

Rude much.

Rider gestured quickly with his butter-knife, figuratively cutting the conversation off. "Alright, bets aside, we all have things to do today. Slappy, Terror, you guys know what you're doing?"

"Yeah, yeah," Terror flapped a hand at him.

"Fool Killer? Stinger?"

"Yes, we know."

"Masacre?"

"Si."

"Fantastic," Rider clapped his hands once, rubbing his palms together, as if sparking victory between his palms, "We'll meet up around noon to check-in. Try not to start any fights and almost get stabbed to death like last time, _Terror."_

"That happened once," Terror grumbled, pushing out of his chair.

"Try a couple dozen," Stinger clapped a hand on Terror's shoulders, "Admit it, the only thing attracted to your body are knives and bullets."

"If I had the choice to stab _myself_ or save you, I'd pick my rustiest knife."

Their squabbling continued as they tromped out of the room and disappeared outside. As Slappy and Fool Killer made to follow, Peter stopped Wade from finishing off the last of his bacon with a gentle hand on his wrist. It would've looked sweet or domestic to those watching, but Peter knew better.

"What about me?" He asked, "What am I doing? And if you say I'm staying in my room, I'm throwing myself out the window."

"As amusing as that'd be," he bopped Peter's nose with the butter-knife, leaving a dot of honey butter, "no, you're not sentenced to bed rest, even though you still look pale and should probably sleep a day or two."

Peter gave him a hard look.

"Chillax, you're coming with me. I've got to pick up some information from one of my contacts, and frankly, I don't trust you up in your room by yourself. I don't doubt that you'd throw yourself out the window in a dramatic attempt to free yourself. You law-biders, always with the drama."

" _Right_ , we're the dramatic ones."

"If the boots fits," Rider smirked and stuffed the rest of a biscuit into his mouth. He said something around the mush filling his cheeks and gestured for Peter to get up as he rose from his chair.

Peter followed him across the room, ignoring the curious looks still shot his way. It was like school all over again. Almighty, he hated it when people stared. At least when he was Web-Slinger he had a bandanna to hide behind.

Dead Rider opened the door and for a moment, a burst of excitement lit Peter up. He hasn't been outside yet, and while Costa Loca was a rat-filled town, it still had its sights. He blinked the flood of light from his eyes and followed Dead Rider out into the dry heat.

The streets were full of life, running heavy and thick. The roads were slippery with mud and muck and bursting with carts, wagons, and riders, so most folks kept to the walkways along the buildings to keep from getting trampled. Most of the people around them seemed to have a grasp of who Dead Rider was and didn't hesitate to step out of his way when walked in their direction. Peter kept behind Rider, unsure of where they were going, and with the crowds as thick as they were, he didn't want to get pulled away or have to shove and muscle his way through. Or, given the advice Rider gave him last night, maybe he _should_.

He didn't have the slightest idea about what he should do to keep people off his back. He could throw a good punch when necessary and didn't standing down from a fight, but he'd been taught not to go out looking for one. Aunt May and Uncle Ben taught him to be decent and courtesy of those around him, and to only fight back if they threw the first punch (or if his family was in danger). To actively seek out and create a spectacle that would draw eyes and make people wary of him - he didn't know where to even start.

Thankfully, with how fast Dead Rider was walking, he didn't get the chance to think on it. A majority of Peter's aches and pains were still present, hidden deep in his joints and muscles, but it was a far cry better than it'd been last night. The remnants of his fever left him with nothing but a headache and a chill that tremored through his body now and again. Bob had instructed him to take it easy today, which meant his spectacle would have to be effective, easy, and effortless - which made things vastly harder in the long run.

They pulled away from the crowds rather quickly when Dead Rider sidestepped into a different building. This one wasn't as nice as the inn they'd spent the night in. It was a small, rather run-down store. Its items were few and the quality not great, but Dead Rider paid no attention to the merchandise as he approached the clerk behind the store desk.

"Anything I can get you, sir?" the girl asked blankly, unblinking at the heavy guns hanging off the man's waist.

"I'm here to pick up a stick of dynamite," Dead Rider responded, "Don't suppose you have any in stock in the back?" He waggled his eyebrows.

The girl's demeanor only changed slightly. Her movements were as bored as they'd been before, but there was a new attentiveness in her eyes - a look that's crept into her face, barely held back, the moment Dead Rider walked in, meaning this wouldn't be the first time he was asking for explosives.

Is that really what Dead Rider was here for?

She motioned Dead Rider to the door behind the desk and they followed her inside. As soon as it was closed, Dead Rider leaned toward the girl, "So, what'd you do to get clerk duty?"

The girl's lips pursed, and her bored countenance melted into one of faint annoyance. "Was tinkering with a stick of TNT and almost blew up a wagon," she shrugged, and Peter's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. This girl was just a kid, probably somewhere in her teens, what the hell was she doing with _TNT_?

"Ah, that'll do it," Dead Rider laughed and patted the girl on the head, of which she slapped away. "Good seeing you Warhead, but I think I hear someone in the storefront. Be a doll and make sure our dear friend doesn't get robbed."

"I hope Dom blows you up," the girl said over her shoulder as she made her way back to the front.

"Who was that?" Peter asked as Rider led him into another room and down a small hallway.

"I won't tell you her real name, but she goes by Teenage Warhead. A real firecracker," They stopped at a ratty old door on the end and Dead Rider rapped his knuckles against it, shouting, "Knock, knock Dom. I'm comin' in." Before grabbing the handle and going inside.

The room was dark aside from a single lit lantern. It was mostly bare, and sitting on a couch shoved near the corner was a woman. She had dark, short hair cut down to her jawline, and wore the same, thuggish looking clothes as everyone else in this town. A gun was slapped to her hip, her thigh, and her back, but Peter has a feeling so had more weapons stashed on her than _that._ A black mark was drawn cleanly over the left eye, in the shape of the diamond symbol from a pack of cards. It was a symbol he knew all too well.

Domino Dynamite, another one of the most dangerous outlaws in the west. Her expertise in explosive were challenged by few, and she's done plenty of damage when it came to blowing up another person's property or muddling in with an arrest. She's blown holes through enough jailhouses to leave any law enforcer weary - more the half of the successful jail-breaks in the county were _her_ doing.

Dead Rider strode across the room, leaving Peter to hesitate in the doorway. He glanced over his shoulder for half a second, when her sharp voice cut across the room. "I wouldn't do that, deputy," she drawled. She didn't have her weapon drawn, but Peter was under the impression that that wouldn't stop her from killing him on the spot.

Peter glared at Dead Rider, "Did you tell her?"

"I _had_ to," Dead Rider shrugged, "We're partners...ish. Sides' I tell her everything, and if I didn't tell her who you really were, she'd stick me with dynamite and blow me up outside a bridge or something."

"Don't be mad at him," Domino smirked, "I would've found out sooner or later anyway. Sit," her head tilted to the other chair pushed against the wall. "I explicitly told Wade _not_ to bring you, but seeing how you're _here_ ," she leveled her own glare at Dead Rider.

"What? I couldn't just _leave him_ ," Rider defended himself, "You know they'd crowd him the moment I stepped away. He's not ready for that yet."

"And you coddling him will make it better? Why couldn't you leave him with Masacre? Or Terror?"

"Because they wouldn't have done jack-shit if he got cornered."

Peter took the seat, albeit hesitantly. They were probably referring to the spectacle he still needed to make of himself, which was eating away at him. "I would've handled myself," he said, scowling. "Besides, you heard Bob, if I don't want my fever comin' back, I need _less_ exertion. You could've just let me stay up in the room."

"And let you try and escape? Yeah right, and didn't you _complain_ about being stuck in the room. I distinctly remember you threatening to throw yourself out the window."

Domino sighed, rubbing her head. "Whatever, he's here now, I suppose. We can't talk about your _other_ job, so why don't we discuss what exactly you plan on doing with him?" she nodded toward Peter again.

"Yes, do tell," Peter drawled, crossing his arms, "I've been wondering the exact same thing."

"I was going to take him back to Gunstand and have Weasel keep an eye on him till' my other job is done. I have an old place back there, and a friend I can cash in a favor with to keep him out of trouble."

Domino raised a single eyebrow, "You think it's a good idea to leave him _there_? Deputy Webslinger, the second-in-command to Sheriff Rogers? Do you know what they'd do to him if they found out? And is cashin' in this favor really worth it, if its to who I think it is? This seems awful risky, Wade, even for you."

Dead Rider lay back into the couch, hands behind his head, the picture of ease. "It'll be fine, Dom. Look at him, he wouldn't hurt a fly."

Both Peter and Dom fixed him with deadpanning looks.

Domino grumbled something low under her breath and gestured toward the door, "Up. We need to talk, _now_."

"What's wrong with talkin' in here?"

Domino glanced at Peter, her lips flattening into a thin line. Peter was under the distinct impression that he wasn't wanted. She looked back at Rider and jabbed a finger toward the door, " _Now_."

"Alright, I'm going. I'm going," Dead Rider sighed deeply and pulled himself up from the couch. He followed Domino out of the room and Peter watched the door shut behind them. Now that he was alone, he wasn't quite sure what he should do. He knocked his knees together a few times, looking around the room once, before getting up. There wasn't much. The couch, the chair, a little table, and a small bed shoved in the corner. It reminded him suddenly of a jail cell and he glanced back at the door, feeling a wrench in his gut.

They didn't lock him in there, did they?

Suddenly anxious, he strode toward the door. The doorknob twisted easily enough, and he peeped out of the room. Domino and Dead Rider, who were a decent distance away, but both snapped up to look at him from their whispered conversation when the door creaked.

"Get back in there," Domino snapped and Peter scowled, but did so.

He felt better knowing he wasn't locked in, at least.

He paced the room for a while, before going back to the door to push his ear against it. He couldn't hear anything but a small, harsh murmur between the two outside, but nothing loud enough to discern. After a few minutes of quiet murmuring he went back to pacing the room, cradling his arm to his chest. He checked the couch, the chair, the bed for anything useful, and when nothing turned up, he slouched back into his chair with a defeated puff of air.

After what felt like a whole fortnight, the door finally opened again. Peter sat up, but fell back when only Domino stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. She took her time returning to the couch, and Peter kept glancing back at the door, waiting for Dead Rider to return, but so far that wasn't the case.

"Where'd Rider go?" he asked.

Domino didn't answer him till she was back on the couch, lounging in a casual position that suggested that they were nothing but old friends enjoying each other's company. "He's off doing a few things," she said easily, "In the meantime, we need to talk."

Peter forced himself to sit back into the chair, "'Bout what?"

"About you," she crossed her arms and legs, "You're gettin' too comfortable, Slinger."

"Comfortable? _Here_? The place I've been brought to after gettin' knabbed?"

"Yes, comfortable. I don't know what you've heard about Dead Rider and his crew, but I think you've gotten too accustomed to them. Almighty knows discretion isn't their strong suit, and they blab their plans as well as they can shoot. You're smarter than most would give you credit for, and don't expect me to underestimate that. But I think you've forgotten the situation you've gotten yourself into."

Peter didn't think he liked where this conversation was going, "And what, exactly, is the situation I've gotten myself into."

"We're not your friends, Slinger. We're not pals. We're not even acquaintances. You're the deputy of the toughest Sheriff in the West, and we're law-dubbed outlaws. Rider says he nabbed you for a ransom soon as this other job's done, and I can believe that at a length. His plan to keep you outta trouble tells me enough, but the fact that you're actually going along with it troubles me."

"Which plan? The one where I get stranded in Gunstand? Or the one where I pretend Rider and I are affiliated."

"Which one do you think?" Domino rolled her eyes, "Look, Slinger, as good of a shot that he is, sometimes Rider doesn't know where the bullet's gonna land, and sometime's his mark will do more harm than good. You, keep your distance. He's tough on the outside, but he's soft inside, and easily hurt."

Peter scoffed, crossing his arms, "You think I'm going to hurt the Dead Rider? Yet, I'm the one with a bad arm."

"I wouldn't give a damn if your whole arm was off," Domino stated, brutal and honest, "And as much as I want to blow a hole through his chest sometimes, Dead Rider is my friend, and I'll personally put a bullet in your head before I let you put him back in his. He's had it rough the past few years, and I'm not gonna watch him go through it again. You keep your distance from him. You're a law-bidder and he's killed more people than you can count, keep that in mind the next time you two hold hands in public."

With that, she got to her feet and didn't give Peter the opportunity to gather his own rebuttal as she opened the door, "Now get outta my building, I can smell the law on you and it's making me sick."

Peter got up and left the room, meeting her eyes briefly as they passed before he was back out into the hall. "Rider will be back in the front," Domino said, "My compadre here will escort you back. And remember what we discussed," the door closed behind her and that was that.

The compadre mentioned was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and expression grim. Peter wondered if they'd mistaken an ape for a man, or if he just _looked_ that way, but the man was tall and looming, with a wide chest and biceps bigger than Peter's head. His skin was tanned, but there was enough body hair to make _several_ wigs, though most of it was covered by the large overalls he wore. His face was square and his nose squashed, as if someone had beaten it into his face and it never healed right.

He looked down at Peter like a beast looking over a bug and snorted. "Let's go," even his voice was a deep gusto that belonged at the bottom of a large lake.

Still, somehow, he looked unimpressive compared to the hard, steely edges he endured during his conversation with Domino. It was no mystery why she was running a rag-tag gang of her own.

Still, Peter followed the ape-man back to the front, where Teenage Warhead was boredly doodling inappropriate words and pictures on the clerk desk, and Dead Rider who was pacing near the stacks of flour bags, his arms crossed and fingers tapping against his biceps. The moment Peter entered the room, his arms dropped and he bee-lined for them, only to hesitate, and wait for ape-man to escort Peter the rest of the way.

"Thanks, Gorilla," he said, "I'll take it from here," and Peter refrained from chuckling. He'd been right about the ape-like comparison then.

Gorilla grunted down at Wade, having still a foot or so more height than him, which was saying something as Dead Rider was no small man either. Still. Gorilla stepped away and returned to the backroom to hide wherever he's been since they first arrived.

"Stay outta trouble, Wade," Gorilla rumbled over his shoulder, "I'll break your back over my knee if you drag us into another one of your shit-shows."

"Lovely people," Peter muttered as soon as Gorilla was out of ear-shot.

"You get used to them. Threats and maiming is how we say 'hello' and 'I love you'. Now come on, we've got to head back." Dead Rider shot a rude gesture at Warhead, who returned it without so much as glancing up from her artistic masterpieces, and they were back out in the streets within the blink of an eye.

Peter shook his head, unable to wrap his mind around these people. Was common decency just not a thing?

He followed Wade back to their hotel, not as enraptured with his surroundings as before, his mind too swollen from the threats Domino had dealt out. For a bunch of bandits, robbers, and thieves, their camaraderie was commendable - as threateningly veiled as they were. Peter could appreciate that, less so when the threats were aimed at him, but he figured given his status that was to be expected.

Domino didn't hold back and he believed every word that had been pulled from her teeth. Peter wondered what she'd said to Rider. With the glimpse he'd seen of their conversation, and the way Rider was now uncharacteristically silent, it must've been a serious one, and he couldn't help but feel he was part of the blame.

What did Domino mean by keeping a distance? Peter hadn't exactly been galivanting with Dead Rider and his posse since being kidnapped by them, and each interaction was because he was in a tight spot and there was nothing more he could do.

Had she expected him to fight and throw a fit when they'd given him the plan of pretending to be Dead Rider's lover? Yeah, and he'd wanted to. He wanted to yell and scream at them and make a big angry show out of it, but he couldn't. He was trapped between a gun and a knife, and he didn't want to be forced between either of them. He was doing what he needed to do to ensure that he survived, and that was that. She had it _wrong_.

They made it back to the inn unscathed aside from the ever-present stares, and Dead Rider only stopped to slap his hand on the bar-counter, toss some coins toward the bar-tender, and order a bottle of his strongest whiskey.

Bottle in hand, they went back up to the room, where Dead Rider crudely tore the cap off, tugged his bandanna down, and drank a gulp from the bottle. Peter closed the door behind them as Rider collapsed on the bed, his hat knocking from his head and tumbling onto the floor. Normally he was conservative, but whatever Domino had told him must've been more important as he didn't move to fix it.

Peter tried not to stare at the rough, red ridges of his bald head, the only hair being small tuft of blonde that grew in odd places. He leaned back against the door, crossing his arms, and observed the man before him.

Rider took another swig from the bottle, his scarred neck and chin bobbing slightly, before it went back down with a sharp sigh. The sudden recklessness of his behavior didn't sit right with Peter.

"So, what'd she tell you?" Rider asked gravely, staring up at the ceiling. "Did she threaten to shoot you in the head? She does that a lot."

"UH...yeah, she did," Peter mumbled, "Real nice, lady."

"Yeah, she's a real _stick of dynamite_. But she'll do it, so I wouldn't cross her. She may be one of the meanest grouches you'll ever meet, but she always has my back. Even if she shouldn't," the last part was muttered quietly, softly, and Riders eyes trailed across the ceiling as if following some imaginary trail Peter couldn't see.

After a long, awkward moment he thrust out the bottle, "Drink?"

Normally, Peter would've refused, but he surprised himself when he strode forward and took the bottle, taking a long gulp. Did sharing the same bottle of whiskey count as a couples' thing? He just felt so burned out and the tingle of whiskey might make the ache in his arm go away. He handed it back to Rider and sat at the end of the bed, both arms pressed to his chest.

"What did we get ourselves into, Deputy?" Rider asked, slinging an arm over his eyes.

Peter wanted to argue that _he_ hadn't wanted to go along with any of this, but Rider looked so exhausted and so put out that he didn't have the heart to really argue. Which was a conundrum in itself because he really shouldn't care. Rider was his kidnapper and an outlaw, he should be looking for a chance to escape, not sympathizing with him,

"Yeah," he says instead, "What did we do."

"Be ready to head out. We leave for Gunstand in two days, so rest up and sing to some birds or whatever the fuck you law-biders do to recover. We're gonna be riding long and fast with minimal breaks, so you need to be ready." Peter waited for the joke that was likely to follow, and when there was no follow up, he looked over at Rider with pursed lips.

Nothing.

"Were you gonna make the joke, or was I supposed to?"

Rider chuckled, the barest hint of a smile tugging on his face, "Glad to know they come across."

"What did she tell you?" Peter asked and Dead Rider looked up.

"Huh?"

"Domino, she talked to you before me. What'd she tell you."

Dead Rider took another drink of the liquor, facing scrunching from the burn and he shook once to get rid of it. "Just...some new information. And the same talk she did you, apparently. Not that any of that matters to you. I know Dom thinks I'm a dunderhead, but I ain't an idiot - not all the time. I think she's just got her holster on a bit too tight, especially if she thinks either of us are serious about our charade."

Peter snorted, rubbing his fingers into his arm. "We're just pretending. Nothing about it is real. It wasn't even my idea, so I don't know why she's gettin' all worked for."

Dead Rider hummed, staring up at the ceiling. A tension hung in the air, not quite broken with their words. It settled heavy between them and Peter tried not to squirm and disrupt the stillness that had invaded the room. The bottle sat heavy in Dead Rider's hand now, but he didn't put it to his lips again. For half a second, Peter wanted to take it from him and to take a good swig just to burn the edge off, but he kept his arm planted firmly at his side.

The atmosphere only broke when a particularly loud shout rose from outside and they both glanced towards the window. Dead Rider sat back up, took a final drink from the bottle and set it on the nightstand. He got to his feet, readjusted the holsters on his hips and fit the bandanna back over his face.

Now that he'd calmed down, he looked almost sheepish about his actions. He picked up his hat, refit it, and tipped it lightly toward Peter, "I...better go check up on the rest of the idiots. You stay here and rest up that arm. I've got people watching every exit of this building, so don't try anything. And now that Dom's gettin' herself involved, I don't think you'd want to anyway. She's a lot less forgivin' than me, Slinger. You'd do well to keep that in mind."

Peter, for the life of him, couldn't tell if he was being truthful, or bluffing. Peter didn't doubt the Domino would get herself involved, and she'd do it well. But Dead Rider's duped Peter before, back in the camp when he'd tried to steal away the other man's horse and escape. This could very well be a trick to keep him in line. But the matter of the situation was whether Peter was confident enough on his deduction to call his bluff.

Trying could very well put his body in the ground.

With a final look, Dead Rider closed the door. Peter sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, and stared down at his moveable hand. Maybe everything from the last few days was finally catching up to him, or maybe Domino's words had stuck with him more than he thought, but a heavy dread settled over his body, weighing down his heart.

He really wasn't in a good situation. He was run out of his home, accused of working with a known murderer, kidnapped, injured, forced into a town where every second ticked down an inevitable death by gun or blade. He didn't even have the full functioning capacity of both his arms.

As much as Dead Rider and his posse could joke and laugh, they weren't his friends. He couldn't even call them associates or acquaintances. They were his kidnappers, planning on using him as leverage or a ransom. They were orchestrating an attack on Norman Osborn, one of the people Peter hated most, but the father of one of the few friends he's had since childhood. And what could he do about it? About any of it?

If he uttered one word about who he truly was, not even Dead Rider could stop the hounds from coming after him. Costa Loca was not meant for his kind. It was like a fish in the desert - he was out of place and he didn't belong. It was only a matter of time before they noticed his gasping and flopping and realized it too.

All of a sudden, he could feel the walls of a trap closing in on him. He was snagged by a line and he had nowhere to go; caught in the steel teeth of a cage, waiting for it to bite down and put his squirming to rest.

Stumbling to his feet, Peter reached for the door, only to hesitate just inches from the smooth brass. Even if he wanted to get away, there was no where he could go. Whether or not Dead Rider was bluffing, he wouldn't make it far - as injured as he already was - without a horse, money, or even supplies. He could try to steal some, but the most he's ever stolen was a slice of pie from Aunt May - and it didn't take her long to find the culprit.

His trembling hand ran through his hair instead, tugging lightly at the roots in an effort to bring his thoughts back to the ground. He just needed to stay calm. That's the first step. He stepped away from the door and paced a meaningless trail into the hardwood, stopping a few times to peak out of the window.

When he didn't feel in danger of chewing his own heart out, he made it back to the bed and gingerly retook his seat on the edge. So far, the biggest hindrance he had right now was his injured arm. If he wasn't banged up, escaping would be astronomically easier. Still hard, but easier.

So, his first priority would be to heal up as quickly as his body would allow. Nodding to himself, Peter carefully lay back on the bed, putting a hand behind his head. The curtains were dark and did a good job blocking most of the light, so that wasn't much of a bother. It was pretty hot, so he didn't pull the blankets up.

Despite the way his head warred against itself, he sifted and waded through the murk, looking for sleep. At least there, it wasn't so bad.

<><><><><><><>

* * *

Something was going on and Peter wasn't sure he liked it.

Slappy was the one who woke up him a few hours later, not by splashing him with water or throwing something on him (thankfully) and told Peter to meet the rest of them downstairs at the bar. Peter hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but as he walked down the stairs, after fixing his clothes, and arranging his hat and newly acquired bandanna (Stinger had finally coughed when up when Peter nagged him about it again), the sudden stiffness of Rider and his posse when they saw him made him suspicious. They weren't at their usual table either.

He didn't act on his unease right away and slid easily against the bar, leaning on it in a similar fashion to Rider, and ordered a drink. Domino's warning was a distant echo in his ear, but he still closed his fingers around Rider's hand. Regardless of her words, they couldn't just drop the facade now. It'd be too suspicious after all the flirting they've done and the work the group had done to spread the rumor.

Rider squeezed his hand back but there was something in the way his other fingers tapped against the bar-top, the way he kept adjusting his hat, or touching his guns - just a skim of the fingertips before he was fidgeting with something else.

It wasn't just him either. Terror seemed determined to keep his nose stuffed in his glass, and Stinger and Fool Killer kept themselves in a cycling conversation about guns and kill-counts. Slappy kept glancing at Peter as if expecting his arms to fall off; Masacre was silent in the corner, drawing mindless doodles on the wood, and for once didn't seem intent on following Peter's every move.

Peter took a slow sip of the drink the bartender set in front of him, taking his time in examining each and every single one of them as he savored the cool, crisp taste. He may not have been with them for very long, but Steve always said he had an eye for detail. Mannerisms and body language were just another way to read someone and translating the hidden meanings behind gestures was another means of communication. Sometimes the meaning was lost, and he couldn't _quite_ decipher a person right, but he could say that he's gotten better it.

Peter wondered if Domino had given them a talking to as well. They had the deportment of a person who's been accused, judged, and facing execution.

Out of nowhere, Fool Killer stood up proclaiming, "I better go check on the stables and make sure our horses will be ready by the time we leave," and promptly left the room.

"I better go help him," Stinger said, following him, "He can be an idiot sometimes."

"Me too," Slappy said, hopping off his stool.

Stinger turned a glare at him, "What do we need your help for?"

"I like horses," was Slappy's defense as he pushed Stinger toward the door, "Let's go."

A few more minutes passed before Terror got up, "I need to clean my guns tonight. I'm callin' it early."

Peter pursed his lips and watched him go. When the bartender came back around, Peter stopped him to order a small plate of chicken and potatoes, if just to do something other than chew on the sudden anxiety sitting on his tongue.

By the time the plate was stopping in front of him though, Dead Rider went still and cursed, spine straightening like someone yanked it up by a rope. "Dammit, told Terror I wanted him to grab us some ammo before we left. There ain't no way I'm letting him off the hook. I'll be back," what surprised Peter more was when he bent down and planted a firm kiss on his cheek.

Peter, on his part, barely managed to keep his potatoes on his fork as his brain went blank and he was forced to watch in stunned paralysis as Wade left to find Terror. Masacre got up and followed him without a word.

When Peter shook himself out of his stupor, he took a bite of his potatoes (which suddenly tasted drier than before), chewed, swallowed, took a drink, and realized that the room had gone uncharacteristically silent.

It was in that silence that he realized for the first time that he was also 100% completely _alone_. No Rider. No Stinger, Masacre, Fool Killer or Terror. Hell, Peter would've felt better if _Slappy_ was with him. But he couldn't be because they were all _gone_ and Peter has been abandoned.

With a drop in his stomach, he heard chairs scooting across the floor followed by several pairs of feet approaching him from behind.

This is what Dead Rider had been warning him about. The moment he stepped away, the coyotes would be inching forward; he could feel the weight of their presence on his back and the curiosity of their nature nipping at his heels. They were hungry.

This was his moment to establish ground and keep them off his back.

He took a silent breath to still the hammering of his heart and let the fork fall back onto the plate with a clatter that pierced the air like its own arrow. Peter turned, his good hand falling on his gun hilt and his bad arm pressing more tightly to his chest, as he came face to face with three other people.

Damn, he was already outnumbered.

The one in front was an unimpressive looking man, but he was looking at Peter like he was a fragile necklace he fancied for thieving, but couldn't quite figure out how to get his hands on it. The hand spoken of was laying on his gun in a calm and leisure kind of way, mirrored by the two others he enlisted for backup. So, while they were trying to intimidate, they weren't outright threatening Peter. Not yet.

"So, you're the one they're saying the Dead Rider's grown a fancy to," the man said, and gave Peter the look over, "Don't look like much if you was askin' me."

Peter quirked an eyebrow and took off the wall-flower mask he was using to go unnoticed and pulled on the tougher persona of Webslinger - or _Ricochet,_ he had to correct himself - he wasn't a deputy in this case. He was just another outlaw.

"Well, it's a mighty good thing no one was asking," he said, leaning his back against the bar, "Besides," he gestured to the bartender for another drink before he continued, "What's it to you, stranger? If you were hopin' for a bit of warmth yerself tonight, you can move along little doggie," Peter gave him the look over, "You're not my _type._ "

There was a quiet murmur of chuckles around the room from those who were unabashedly watching the exchange, and the man lips pursed into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowing so far you'd think they were digging for gold. "No," he said gruffly, "I don't spend my coin on those who spend time on their knees."

A sharp bout of laughter followed his slander and he grinned, his arrogance visibly inflating with the derisive approval of his insult.

Peter's stomach churned on the implications of that statement. He'd seen enough prostitutes along the streets and he couldn't say he envied their position. Not just because the thought of servicing people _that_ way made him uncomfortable, but because it was scum like this very man and his treatment toward them that made the job seem so unbearable. Peter couldn't find fault in a person who was just trying to make a living for themselves, but even the _thought_ of sharing a bed with a man like _this_ grossed him out on several levels.

Still, he forced himself to keep leaning into the bar and ignored the building desire to clock this man in his stupidly cocky grin, and shrugged, "Wouldn't matter anyway. You couldn't afford me."

"So it's true then," the man sneered, "Dead Rider's just payin' you to sleep with him. Or pretend to be his lover at least," Peter's mind briefly fled to panic, suddenly turning to a flying mantra of ' _he knows. he knows. he knows. he know'_ before the man added, "we all know a corpse can't sleep with no one. He's just tryin' to pass himself off as one of the living."

Oh.

Okay.

Peter distracted his settling panic by popping a piece of chicken into his mouth, "Corpse. Dead. Alive. Doesn't matter. I'd still bet he's a better lay than you," He wiped his hands together to get rid of the lingering grease on his fingers, "'Side's, it'd be unfair if he got all the credit. Aren't we all a little dead inside?"

The woman behind the man snorted, "A little cocksucker like you," she jeered, "You're just hidin' behind him, aren't ya. We all know no one would be with the likes of _him_ if they wasn't getting something good out of it, and no amount of coin would be enough to bed _that_ ," she cocked her head to the side, grin sharp, "So what's a pretty thing like you hidin' from then? You got a bounty on ya? Hiding under the Dead Rider's dick so you won't get caught?"

Peter scowled, narrowing his eyes, when the man laughed loudly with her and stepped closer into Peter's space. "What's a name like Ricochet anyway? What? Can't _shoot_ right? Does Rider help you with _that_ too?"

Peter flushed. _Dammit._ He never should've let Rider pick his name. Besides, this guys laugh was just so fucking _irritating._ Like listening to a braying donkey.

The man opened his mouth again, but Peter was quicker and the bark of his gun went off before any sound could come out. A loud _ping_ was followed by a scream as the men collapsed, clutching his bleeding leg. His two backup's made for their guns.

"I wouldn't," Peter warned, his gun trained on them now. They slowly withdrew their hands. "Ya'll go on and take a seat then," he said, "This doesn't concern you. Though, I might change my mind," he leveled a dark look at the woman, who clicked her mouth shut.

They slowly walked backward and fell into their seats. Once he was sure they weren't going try anything, Peter turned to the whimpering man.

"Bu - but you wasn't even pointin' it at me," he was groaning, sounding thoroughly confused and in pain, "You wasn't even -" Peter stepped on his bleeding leg and he screamed again.

"Now you listen up you horse-shit eating bastard," Peter growled, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, now really aiming his gun at the man's chest, "And you listen good. I'm _Ricochet_ cause I don't need to be aiming at you to shoot you, that's the first thing you'll do well to remember. Second is that I don't take it kindly when second-rate coin-snatching rattlers like _you_ think you can just up and talk to me whenever you like. If I wanted to hear one filthy word outta your mouth, I'd have told ya."

He applied more pressure and the man yowled - Peter normally didn't like inflicting pain purposefully, but this man happened to be all kinds of bastard and he probably needed to be knocked down a peg or two anyway. "Third," he continued through his teeth, "you'd be right to leave the likes of me and my affiliations to our own business, and if you go stickin' your nose where it don't belong, you might just lose it. And if you, or any of your wannabe's, ever approach me again, it won't be your leg that I shoot next time. Do you understand?"

The man whimpered and Peter applied enough pressure that he screamed, "Yes! Yes, I understand."

Peter smiled warmly, "Good then," he got back up and straightened his shirt, stepping off the man's leg so he could curl in on himself.

Peter turned back to the bar where his drink had been set, waiting for him. He threw his head back and tossed the liquid in, then slammed the cup back down on the bar. "It's on _his_ tab," he told the bartender as he slid his gun back into its holster and walked to the staircase. He passed the hard, metal disk near the door that led to the kitchen, where a dent had been imbedded into its surface.

He was lucky the rebound had hit the man he wanted instead of hitting some other poor _schmuck_.

The room was as silent as a cemetery, the only noise being the scuffle of his boots as every eye trailed after him. Only when he was turning up the stairs did he hear the two other bandits surge forward to help their friend and a fierce rumble of conversation sprouted in the wake of the broken silence.

As soon as Peter was out of sight, he sagged against the wall, holding his chest with his good arm. His heart beat so fast, it was like a hare caught in a trap. Oh Almighty on a bucking bronco that was _close_.

If any of them had the sense to call him out on his bullshit he didn't know what he would've done. Maybe throw his drink their face and try to make it up the stairs before they dragged him back by his ears?

Peter didn't realize he wasn't alone until a pair of bouncing arms were wrapping around him and pulling him into an excited hug. "You did it! You did it!" Dead Rider was squealing, schooling his tone _just_ enough that it was safe, but it still left Peter's head ringing. He hugged the very breath out of Peter's lungs, caging in his hurt arm until Peter hissed when the pressure got too much.

Rider quickly let go and put a distance between them, but he was beaming so widely Peter could see the curve of his lips carved into the bandanna. Terror and Masacre were standing nearby, the former who was nodding his head in appreciation.

"Un trabajo bien hecho," Masacre said and Peter smiled awkwardly.

Terror gave a grunt and a nod. "Good job, Slinger."

Peter looked between them in bewilderment, trying to sort out what the fuck they were doing up there, "Thanks, but..." he paused, squinting, "Wait...did...did you guys _plan_ this?"

"Uh..."

Peter glared at Dead Rider, who had his hands behind his back like a child trying to hide a cookie, "You left me down there on _purpose_? What the hell?" He refrained from grabbing Rider by the neck and wringing it for all he was worth. "Why would you do that?!"

"You needed to show them you meant business and it didn't seem like you were gonna do it on your own."

"Well, why didn't you _warn_ me?"

"Because you'd only have thought yourself to pieces before you did anything. Besides it's always so much more convincing when it happens out of nowhere."

Peter glared at him and Rider pulled his hands up into a palliating gesture, "Hey, it all worked out, and we'd have been down there at your side if things went sideways. It's all good."

"You're just lucky I've got a bad arm, else I'd be beating the shit outta you," Peter griped and stomped to the room, trying not to feel like a tantruming child. Yet, somewhere in the petulant anger he was feeling, a cool sense of relief was there too.

Yeah, throwing him into the mess pissed him off, but through the frustration tangling in his lungs, there was something so freeing to finally having this weight off his shoulders. The hardest part was over, now it was just a matter of keeping up the facade in the eyes of the public.

Shouldn't be too hard, seeing how he's done the same thing as Webslinger for years now. Just a tweak to his usual performance and no one was the wiser. Ricochet was a terrible name, but it was _his_ name now, and he needed to make it a good one.

Inside his room, he massaged the tender muscles of his arm to loosen it up and debated calling it a night. It was still pretty early, so maybe he'd just sit up there for a few more hours and...stare at the wall? He couldn't exactly go walking along the street and parlors in this blasted town, he just got through one confrontation, and while the word would spread fast, he didn't want to endure another one like it so soon. Not yet, at least.

Maybe he could ask Dead Rider to go buy him a book or newspaper; _anything_ to keep his brain occupied on something other than the ceiling furnishings.

A noise came from outside and Peter patiently closed his eyes as Stinger, Fool Killer, and Slapper burst into the room, already expressing their congratulations on his outlaw debut in the loudest way possible. They dramatically described his own actions to him in glee, explaining how they'd been watching the entire exchange through the window outside. When asked, Peter explained how he'd calculated the shot to rebound and hit the man (although he'd been aiming for his hand, not his leg - but that was just a _minor detail,_ right?). By this time, Dead Rider, Masacre, and Terror had joined them in the room and Peter was forced to explain his shot over again.

The way Dead Rider buzzed with so much uncontained delight made Peter's crafted image of him do a double take. The rumors and stories always said Rider had a thirst for blood and an uncontrollable, almost hysterical persona that doubled as insane. So it was strange to see that same blood-lusting monsters giggling on the floor, hands pressed eagerly to his face, as Peter explained how he ricocheted the bullet off the metal disk.

His story sparked their own tales, and somewhere in the clamoring of their stories of trick-shots and hits, a bottle of liquor appeared, along with a glass for each of them. With each new sip Peter treated himself, his anger ebbed, and a smile grew. Suddenly, their little trick seemed a _lot_ more hilarious now that the danger had passed.

If he were a little more sober, he would've realized that this was his first time truly getting along with them. If his head wasn't as light and hazy, he'd remember that these were _outlaws_ he was laughing with. Bandits on the run that he would've been hunting down if they'd crossed paths only a few days ago.

But that night he raised a glass with them, and they're laughter, singing, and stories carried on through the night.

<><><><><><><><><><>

* * *

Peter hated his life.

Honestly, what was the point anymore? Why did he need to continue living like this? The only thing he knew now was pain and migraines, and both of them could throw themselves off a cliff. He groaned into something fluffy and soft, and burrowed himself into it lest the world outside find him and realize he was awake. Or maybe he should let them put him out of his misery.

Someone must've brought him to the bed last night, cause he couldn't remember anything past Slappy pulling out a pack of cards and starting a strange game Peter's never played that involved a whole lot of liquor. Something about every time something of the so-and-so and you had to drink? Peter didn't know, he could hardly remember his own name, much less the rules of the game.

A rumble of groans answered him from around the room, and the bed dipped and shifted, and Peter felt an arm wrap around his torso as a chest pressed against his back. The rhythmic breathing of his guest led him to believe that they were sleeping, as he had been a few minutes ago, and Peter groaned again (softer this time so he didn't wake them) and sank into the warmth of the bed and body.

Only for his eyes to snap open and he jerked up, flailing in the sheets and promptly falling out of the blankets and onto the floor, pulling his guest from slumber in the process.

"Oh... _fuck_ ," he hissed under his breath, "Oh damn," his aching arm glued itself to his chest, and his opposite rubbed his temple deeply, trying to push away the ticking-bomb in his brain.

The other person who'd been on the bed jumped up, holding their hand as if they had a gun and fingers twitching as if they were shooting, when he realized there was no threat, and he had no gun, he blinked and collapsed back on the bed, groaning deeply. " _Damn_ ," he rumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What a night."

Peter glanced up at Dead Rider and connected the arm flopped over the bed as the one that had been cuddling him just seconds before, and he flushed a deep red. Just what the _hell_ had happened last night?

The prospect that they'd shared a bed and Peter had _no memory_ of what may or may not have occurred was a terrifying one, but at the same time his hangover was far too powerful to allow him to dwell on such matters, and his face was already so red he didn't want to outshine the sun anytime soon. Besides, by the look of it, they were both fully dressed in the clothes they were wearing the day before, so he doubted anything _really_ went down between them.

Hopefully…

Maybe...

Around the room, the rest of the group were sprinkled at random. Masacre was propped up in the corner of the room, head bowed, and breathing deeply, his long rifle laying loosely in his hands. Terror was sprawled face down on the floor, eagle-wide, and Slappy was draped over his back, an arm over his face as he snored loudly. Fool Killer was laying on his back on the floor, one foot propped up on the bed and bare-chested due to the fact that he was using his own shirt as a pillow.

The door opened and Stinger slowly walked inside, nursing a cup of in his hands, and face pinched so tightly you would've thought he was sucking on a lemon. A pitcher was clutched in his other arm and swished dangerously with each heavy step.

He placed the pitcher on the nightstand, along with the cup, and poured himself a generous amount.

Peter sat up and managed to climb up the bedside and plop on the edge of the bed, waiting his turn for the cup. Aunt May was always unsympathetic when she found him, MJ, or Flash hung-over after a night of victory drinking, which was few and far between because Peter normally didn't drink that much. The idea of not being in control of himself wasn't appealing, and someone needed to help MJ and Flash home after they were too drunk to help themselves. Still, the few times Aunt May _did_ find him, it was with a sniff and a look that said, " _serves you right._ "

"That's what you get for drinking that stuff," she'd say, but she wasn't without mercy and normally brought a pitcher of water for him to drink and a bran muffin to settle his stomach.

Her scolding's echoed in his ears and he smiled despite himself, pouring himself a glass when Stinger finished and collapsed on the chair near the window.

The water was absolute bliss to his parched throat, but he drank between sip's so he didn't end up puking it all back up. He handed the glass off to Dead Rider who was sitting up and blearily looking around the room.

"What you smilin' about?" Rider asked as he took a large swallow.

"Hm? Oh, nothing," Peter got up from the bed, "Just...thinking of some stuff..."

"Would it have anything to do with a hangover cure?" Rider hissed, rubbing his head.

Peter smiled, but it felt more like a grimace, and his head seemed to tighten as if to remind him that he had a hangover too. "Nope," he said, "Sorry."

"I hate everything," Slappy moaned from the floor, which pulled Terror out of his sleep and he grunted before roughly tossing the smaller man off of him.

"We need to get up," Rider said as he sank back into the blankets, covering his head with a pillow. Peter nudged his dirty boots off the bed, having already slept a night with them and that was just gross.

Somewhere in the back of his head a voice whispered, _this is the perfect time to escape._

Peter had to pause and think, _escape from what?_ Before he remembered.

It _would_ be an ideal time to escape, what with Rider and his entire posse out of commission. The only problem was that _he_ happened to be out of commission too, and if he tried to make a break for it, he'd end up doubled over on the stairs, puking his insides out.

Instead, he groaned miserably again and shuffled toward the bathroom and locked the door from the inside. His bandages were a bit skewamper, and they probably needed to be rebandaged, but if didn't feel like anything was torn or stretched.

He bent over the sink, running the cool water from the tap and soaking his face in it. He looked up at his disgruntled expression in the mirror, where a nauseated man with rumpled bed hair and lidded eyes stared back. He was a _mess_. When was the last time he bathed? He'd need to do that before they left Costa Loca, he'd have lice by the time they arrived at their next destination otherwise.

For now, he scrubbed his face as quickly as he dared, relieved himself, and returned to the room after washing his hands. By then the rest of the posse were rousing themselves, looking exceptionally unhappy with each passing minute.

They all took turns hydrating themselves in attempts to flush the alcohol and its symptoms from their body.

"I'll never drink again," Terror vowed, downing another cup.

"You said that last time," Stinger muttered as he walked by him, searching for his boots.

"I mean it this time,"

"You said that last time too," Slappy glumly commented, and Terror flipped them both off.

Masacre took the bathroom as soon as Peter stepped out, much to Fool Killers chagrin as he banged his fist on the door; albeit soft and loosely. Dead Rider was up now and leaning against the wall, eyes closed. He took a deep breath through his nose before standing and striding across the room.

Out of all of them, he looked the least affected by the symptoms of a hangover, which led Peter to wonder just often he drank to build a tolerance like that. "I'll order us some breakfast," he said as he closed the door.

By the time he was coming back, the rest of them had more or less pulled themselves together. Bob followed Rider back in the room, and when faced with Peter's perplexion he said, "I was informed that you needed a change of bandages."

Rider shrugged when Peter looked at him, "It doesn't take a genius to know those bandages need to be switched out."

So, Peter shrugged off his shirt and sat back on the bed as Bob bandaged him up again. Soon enough, Bob was hastening out of the door and the rest of the posse roused up, preparing to head downstairs.

Terror was the first one to make it out the door, "Was gonna check the Bounty Wall for any upcoming jobs," was his only explanation as he left the room.

"What's the Bounty Wall?" Peter asked, "Some kind of bounty exchange or something?"

"It's where all the wanted posters get hung up," Rider answered, sliding his guns into their holsters. "When new ones come in, that's where you wanna look if you're looking for some cash to hunt down. Soon as the bounty's been cashed, they take the poster down so everyone knows it's no longer good."

Well, out of all the chaos and disorder of this town, at this they had _some_ system in place, even if it was for bounty hunters.

"Anyway," Rider continued, "we're heading back out tomorrow, so let's get going. I have things to see to today."

He led them out of the room, down the stairs where breakfast was waiting on their usual table. They climbed in, still woozy, but much more stable on their feet. Hopefully, with something in their bellies, and something to flush out the alcohol, their hangover hell would pass.

Everything seemed the same as yesterday, but the stares were gone. Oh _bless_ the stares were _gone_. No one was tracking his movements or peering over their shoulders for a look. For once, Peter felt like a normal person and not a walking spectacle.

But in exchange for peace, there was something else. Something in the air that Peter couldn't determine. A steady crackle, like electricity, that tingled down his neck. Maybe he should've been relieved that his scene from the night before worked, but there was something in his gut; a certain press in his mind, that told him he wasn't out of the muck just yet, but he couldn't tell for the life of him what that _was._

He nibbled on a biscuit, still trying to find his appetite, and working through this new feeling. Dead Rider seemed to have picked up on the tension too and watched the room with narrowed cautious eyes, one hand feeding him eggs and the other hovering over his guns.

Briefly, they caught each other's eyes and Rider nodded slightly - an indication that he felt it too and for Peter to keep his eyes open. Suddenly, Peter's migraine seemed unimportant and his attention much more focused.

The door to the building flew open and Peter's hand closed over his gun, pulling it out halfway out before he realized it was only Terror. His relief sputtered out when he noticed the look on Terror's face and the blood staining the front of his clothes.

Dead Rider was out of his chair by the time Terror was slamming something down on the table. Peter's blood ran cold. The paper was new and the ink fresh, the words stood boldly out of the two parchments, each bearing the thick, bolded words on the front: **WANTED.**

Down below, two sketches greeted him. One, a dark figure bearing a significant resemblance to the man next to him, and the other of one of Sheriff Rogers deputies.

One read **Dead Rider** and the other **Webslinger.**

****

Peter and Wade only had time to catch each other's eyes again, then all hell broke loose.

In a flash, the table was kicked down and turned on its sides for cover and Peter had his gun in hand; just in time for the barrage of bullets that followed. By the time they were ducking behind the table, Rider had already taken out 4 people who'd drawn their guns, and Peter shot several others who attempted the same. On instinct, his aim sought out different points in the body; wrists, shoulders, legs, knees, but nothing fatal as long as it didn't hit any important arteries. Given their situation though, he might need to adjust his aim to more lethal points.

Peter, Rider, and Masacre were huddled behind their table, and Stinger, Fool Killer, and Terror were behind the opposite table. Slappy had dove behind the bar, knocked the bartender out with a solid punch, and snatched the hidden long rifle as his own, peeping over the tall counter.

"Agh, dammit," Rider growled, dropping more bullets into his gun chamber. "And things were going so fucking well."

"What do we do?" Fool Killer asked across from them.

"First of all, shoot every bastard that points a gun at ya," Rider snapped, "Get back to me once that's over."

"We need to get out of here," Peter said, peering around the table and firing a few shots, "We're cornered here." The table they've claimed was set in the far corner of the room; a perfect place to watch the coming and going of everyone who entered, but it also left them pinned in one place.

"As soon as you seen an opening, feel free to let me know," Rider said as he twisted and fired several expert shots and pained, disgruntled cries followed in the wake of every bark of his gun.

"They're closing in _fast_ ," Slappy yelled, his body jolting every time he shot the rifle, "If we don't move, we're gonna be stuck here! _Rider!_ "

"I know, I know," Rider shouted. "Let me just-"

Before he could "just" do anything, an explosion rocked the building and the unfortunate people who were near the door were blown with shards of glass and bits of wood. Wincing and trying to rub the ringing from his ears, Peter peeped over the table, toward the collecting dust that used to be the front of the building, and watched as someone new strode in.

A pair of hard eyes roamed the room, the left eye was marked with a diamond symbol, and an irritated pair of lips sneered at the bloodied bodies that had gotten caught up in the blast. Peter exhaled in relief and went to stand, but Rider caught his wrist and pulled him back down.

"Whoa, what are you doing? That's Domino."

"That's the thing about the life of an outlaw," Rider grumbled, "You can trust them so long as there isn't a target on your back. Dom's an ally, but even she could turn tailcoat if the bounty would help her team. And with how much they're offering, even _I'm_ debating turning myself in."

Rider peered over the table, guns cocked, "What business, Dom?" He chirped, "Don't suppose you've seen the Bounty Wall this morning."

"Everyone in this damn town saw it," Domino snapped back, but held her hands up to show her empty palms, "But I'm not looking to collect, alright. See, no weapons. Soon as Warhead told me the news, I came to help. Figured every ballsy bounty hunter in this rats nest would be gunning for your ass."

Rider examined her a few seconds longer, before the skepticism in his eyes melted and he jumped to his feet, "Fantastic. I never doubted you, you know."

" _Right_."

Peter was slower getting to his feet, Rider's words still bouncing around in his head. Domino led Rider away from the blasted wall and gestured impatiently for Peter to follow. "That explosion won't disorient them for long. Gorilla is waitin' round back with a ride outta town. Get outta here and find somewhere to lay low, Wade. _Don't_ get your ass arrested or I swear I'm just throwing a stick of dynamite in your cell and letting' ya explode."

"Dom, has everyone told you you have the softest, kindest heart in the West?"

Domino snorted, "You damn well lucky I've such a kind heart, smartass. Now get outta here before I _do_ decide to collect that bounty."

Rider grabbed Peter's hand and headed for the back exit, only stopping in the doorway briefly to turn back around. His eyes swept over his posse, who'd been starting to follow, "I'm cutting connections to all of ya," he announced, "As of this moment, ya'll are no longer affiliated with the name Dead Rider. If'n we see each other again and this bounty still got ground, I'm ain't pulling my shots."

They all collectively nodded, and with a final jerk of his head, Rider pulled Peter out of the room.

"What was that for?" Peter asked as they ducked into the kitchen.

"They'd just be in the crossfire if they followed me with this kind of loot to my name. S'better just to cut them off and go our separate ways. Besides, traveling in a big group's gonna slow us down."

It made sense, so Peter didn't question it. If they wanted to move fast and efficient, a smaller group was the way to go. Still, it was weird that he was feeling a little _sad_ to see them go; but he shook that feeling off as much as he could.

Together they made their way out of the building, only coming across a few of the kitchen staff, who backed off the moment a gun was pointed to their chest. They were kicking their way out of the back door in no time, where the monstrously huge man Peter met back in Domino's shop was waiting.

He handed the reins over to Wade the instant he saw them and swung his heavy, double-barreled rifled more snugly into his hands. "Get goin, Wade, else I'm taking that money myself."

Rider winked at him.

Peter faltered, "There's only one horse."

"Didn't have time to get you both yer own pony. Now hop to it and skip town. I ain't making no promises that I'll hold my good graces if your still here in the next minute."

"You are all _so testy_ ," Peter growled but swung up onto the horse. He held his good hand out to Wade, "C'mon, I'll ride, you cover us. With your multiple lives, you're the most protected out of us both."

Rider grabbed his hand and hoisted himself up after Peter. They had to get close to make room, but Peter didn't allow himself to get worked up over it. Too busy worrying about the possibility of getting shot in the back.

Just as Gorilla stepped out of their way, a voice down the narrow path between the two buildings shouted, "He's this way! He's tryin' to escape!"

Peter huffed. He couldn't believe that this was his _second_ time getting run out of town. Rider didn't seem as ruffled though and easily let off a shot and a second later a body hit the ground, but the damage was already done. More would be rallying.

"Go on, git out of here," Gorilla said and gave the horses flank a sharp smack and they lurched forward.

Peter snapped the reins and clicked his heels into the horses flank, speeding off. "What's the fastest way outta town?" he shouted.

"The main square, just past this bend."

"Good. Be ready to cover us."

"Don't worry, Deputy, I've got us _covered_." Peter ignored the lewd tone. He was starting to expect it now.

"Here we go," he said and turned the corner. The people on the street's jumped back, barely avoiding a collision with the horse, as they sped into the open street and Peter clicked his tongue, spurring the horse on faster when he saw the road that would take them out of town.

Thankfully, surprise was on their side, and most folks were too busy avoiding getting trampled to think about stopping them, so they were met with little resistance. The carts and carriages made for good cover too.

Regardless, their luck didn't hold up completely, and by the time they were speeding fast the last building and into open territory, a small group of riders were hot in pursuit.

"Rider," Peter warned when he felt a bullet slice the air next to his good shoulder.

"I got em'," Rider said, "You keep yer eyes on the road."

Peter felt Rider twist and his arm snuck past Peter's waist to grab the pommel to stabilize himself, followed by the bang of a gun. Several more shots went off, including the sharp ping as someone must've landed a hit on Rider, if his grunt was any indication. Peter heard him spit a curse.

"They're fallin' back," he announced soon after. "That'll teach those horse shits."

But Peter didn't slow down. Right now their first priority was putting as much distance between them and that town as conveniently possible.

Vaguely, he realized that this was the first time he was truly _alone_ with Dead Rider. No posse to back him up, no rooms keeping him in. He had a horse and open terrain.

"I wouldn't, Deputy," the husky, lowness of Rider's voice rumbled in his ear, and he felt Rider's arm curl sharply around his middle, pulling Peter even closer. The cool tip of a gun jabbed his lower back.

He hadn't even realized he'd gone so still.

"We're in this together now, and don't think for a second that you ain't my leverage anymore. We're not done yet."

Peter grit his teeth but kept his eyes forward.

He ignored the press of the gun that was level with his heart or the ache in his arm as he and Dead Rider fled.

A criminal and deputy together, running from outlaw and law-men alike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, there WILL be a sequel to this book and we'll follow Wade and Peter on their shenanigans as they outrun EVERYBODY. And them becoming closer of course, because I do love a slow-burn.
> 
> Once again, thank you Jai for the absolutely beautiful illustrations you drew for this book! They're absolutely amazing and thank you for listening to my story-building, ideas, and thoughts. You're the best!
> 
> Again, big thanks to TwoIdiotsThatWriter as well, because your beta-reader figuratively saved my life and I appreciated all your feedback!
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed some cowboy spideypool and if you liked, feel free to drop my a comment believe and let me know what you think is gonna happen to them now that they're both officially on the run.
> 
> Thanks for reading! :D

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think you guys realize how close I was to just giving Peter and Wade a one-night stand as their history – and just being suuuuuuper awkward about it cause Wade's an outlaw and Peter's a deputy and yeeesh, that'd be bad with someone found out XD
> 
> There are a few more pictures colored for this story, but I decided to spread them out so they weren't all piled in one chapter. 
> 
> Thanks for reading the first chapter! Hope you enjoy the rest of the story! If you do, please leave a review because they fuel my inner writer.


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